


No Longer Will You Be Forsaken

by JulisCaesar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Body Horror, Bullying, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fantasy Racism, Gen, Minor Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicide Attempt, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-02-26 13:17:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 83,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13236525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JulisCaesar/pseuds/JulisCaesar
Summary: In 1979, Regulus Black goes to destroy a Horcrux, expecting to die in the attempt. But luck and Kreacher’s ingenuity keep him alive...which leaves Regulus trying to negotiate switching sides in the middle of a war without getting killed. He hadn't planned past the cave. It's a good thing that both sides can find a use for a spy—isn’t it?





	1. The Cave (1)

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes the writing bug bites. Sometimes it bites hard. This has been some degree of in progress for 18 months now, and the current draft is version 6. I’ll answer questions as they come up but there’ll be no major ships, bashing, etc for the foreseeable future. I’m also doing my best to squish HP canon in line with history. It’s mostly working.
> 
> Update schedule will be every other Monday going forward. I have 3 chapters edited and 18 written, and hope to pad that out to 5 and 20, respectively. This is a long, long fic that I have every intention of taking through 1998, but the writing is in 1981, so buckle up.
> 
> Thank you to my betas, Elizabethdove and noaacat, for catching grammar/ historical/ characterization/ continuity/ spelling errors and generally putting up with me.

Regulus had thought OWL year was bad enough, but NEWT year was ten times worse. Sure, he had dropped some classes, but he was now a Death Eater, and the Dark Lord had no understanding of how much time he needed to spend revising.

Take the last week for instance: He had been planning to spend Easter hols frantically cramming, but an owl had come two days before classes ended. So he had come home, back to Grimmauld Place, and every night so far he had been summoned. He had the afternoon to study, but his mother liked him to spend the mornings attending on her, and that left him only six hours a day and that just wouldn’t be enough.

Six hours—if nothing went wrong. Two nights before, he had misspoken to the Dark Lord and had been punished, and yesterday he had been able to do no revising at all, and tonight was Saturday, with the train back tomorrow morning and he was only just starting to revise for Transfiguration.

With a sigh, he pulled out his notes on complex human-human transfigurations. They had only been introduced right before the holidays as the last topic on the NEWT, and he didn’t feel like he had any sort of grasp on how they worked. Most transfigurations were from object to object, dog to drawer and so on, or from property to property, red hair to green. But complex human-human transfigurations turned one person physically into another person, and the theory was, as per the name, complex.

He’d spent barely fifteen minutes on them, just enough to have a formal definition worked out, when his arm started hurting.

Regulus yanked up his sleeve, glaring at the mark on his arm. The Dark Lord had _told_ him he would have the weekend off and it wasn’t like him to lie. Perhaps the summons was accidental.

He waited a moment, but the pain didn’t vanish. Groaning, he rolled up his notes, shrugged his black over-robe on, and left his room.

Across the landing was Sirius’s door, closed.

Jaw clenched, Regulus stormed down the stairs. He couldn’t be annoyed at the Dark Lord, but it was easy to think about Sirius instead, how Sirius had abandoned him and betrayed him, and with that Regulus could truthfully say his anger was at his brother.

He slowed down and softened his steps as he approached the first floor, where his mother’s sitting room was, but no luck. “Reggie? Reggie! Where are you going?”

Putting a smile on his face, he poked his head into the room. “He’s summoned me, Mother.”

She gave him a look over her reading glasses—which she wore for show, not for reading—but only said, “Give him my best then, dear, you know he loves to hear from me.”

Regulus knew perfectly well the Dark Lord did not appreciate being reminded that Walburga Black still held a schoolgirl crush, but dutifully he bowed his head. “Yes, Mother.”

“Run along, Reggie, don’t keep him waiting.”

As if. “Yes, Mother,” he said again, and left quickly.

Out of the sitting room, into the main hallway, down a last flight of stairs and out the front door. The majority of the wards ended at the front step but the anti-Apparition ward extended to the road outside, to slow down any attacker, his father always said. Regulus disillusioned himself before leaving the house, ran to the road, and Disapparated.

* * *

He spun back into being in front of a manor. The pain in his arm faded. Straightening his robes, Regulus approached the front gates, and showed them the Mark on his arm. The gates swung open, enchanted to respond only to the sight of the Dark Mark. It was one of the security features the Dark Lord added to any manor he was staying in. Thanks to the Ministry’s persecution, the Dark Lord couldn’t remain in any location for too long; instead he lived in the homes of his most faithful and provided them with additional protection.

Regulus made his way towards the manor itself and repeated the gesture at the front doors. Inside it was dark and warm. No one else seemed to be around, but even after only a year of attending meetings, Regulus knew better than to assume he was not watched.

Confidently, he followed the pull from his Mark towards his lord and master. In some ways it annoyed him to bow and scrape to any other, he who would one day be the Duke of Exeter, but at the same time it excited him. Regulus might be in line to inherit the House of Black and become one of the most powerful nobles in wizarding Britain, but that only made more exceptional the man he chose to serve.

“Flattering thoughts,” the Dark Lord said, coming out of the shadows.

Regulus fell to his knees and lowered his head. He hadn’t even felt a presence in his mind, but he no longer was surprised by that: the Dark Lord was a legend for many reasons, after all. “My lord.”

The Dark Lord touched his shoulder gently. “Rise and walk with me.”

He obeyed, he would always obey; it was instinctive to follow his lord, keep himself half a step behind, show the respect the Dark Lord had long since earned.

They walked through the manor in silence for a time. This month, the Dark Lord was staying with the Rookwoods, a family nearly as old as the Blacks but considerably less influential. The highest title Augustus Rookwood had reached was that of Knight of the Realm. The manor, as such, was neither large nor richly furnished. Regulus kept his eyes down and tried to control the criticism he knew his mother would have unleashed.

“Do you have a house elf?” the Dark Lord asked suddenly.

Of all possible questions, he had not seen this coming. He said cautiously, “My parents own two, one of which was given for my personal use on my majority.” Kreacher still answered to his parents, of course, but only Regulus generally gave him orders. “I need use of one,” the Dark Lord said, continuing to walk, “an obedient one that will not gossip.”

Regulus noted another area of magical tradition where his lord was lacking. House elves obeyed whoever fed their magic, and only gossiped to other elves. He had known since the day after his induction that the Dark Lord had not been raised in a magical family; he suspected that had been why he had been recruited so young. As an heir to the House of Black, he had been raised knowing both all the ins and outs of magical society and how to keep a secret. The Dark Lord had need of both.

Not letting any of this leave the deepest reaches of his mind, Regulus said, “Of course, my lord. My elf is very well trained. It would be an honour to have him serve you.”

“Send it to me.” The Dark Lord stopped and turned to him, red eyes meeting Regulus’s. “That is all.”

He bowed and backed away from the Dark Lord. While it was not quite taboo to turn your back on the Dark Lord, it was still dangerous, a danger Regulus did not wish to court.

The Dark Lord ignored him, and walked away.

When Regulus was sure he had gone, or as sure he could be, he turned and made his way back to the entry. The Dark Lord was clearly preoccupied with some new problem that made him more terse than usual. Regulus was pleased with this: he would still have time to revise after returning home.

He first wondered if the Dark Lord wanted Kreacher for whatever problem he was working on, then abandoned that thought with a laugh. Anything the Dark Lord could be up to would surely be more impressive than a house elf. No, he probably wanted Kreacher to clean the manor.

As he left the entry to the manor, he ran into Rabastan. The older man grinned to see him and ruffled his hair. “Good evening! What’s his mood?”

Regulus ducked away, flattening his hair again. “He’s terse, but otherwise normal. Watch your thoughts, though.”

Rab shrugged, movement loose. “I come with good news,” he said smugly, “there’s no reason for him to go looking.”

He thought Rabastan was being rather cocky, but so be it. It wasn’t like Regulus had come with _bad_ news—or any news at all, for that matter. The thought of his disrupted study annoyed him again, and Regulus said waspishly, “But how much do you want him to know about your sister-in-law?”

Rabastan stared at him for a moment too long, shocked out of his smug superiority of being-four-years-older, and Regulus grinned at him and Disapparated.

Something became nothing became something. Regulus appeared across the street from Grimmauld Place and slipped inside and downstairs to the kitchen before his mother could catch him.

“Kreacher!”

The elf was at the kitchen sink, a plate in his hand. He must have been cleaning up from dinner. “Master Regulus is back. And in Kreacher’s room.”

Regulus ran a hand through his hair, unsettled by what he had to ask. “I wanted to talk to you away from Mother.”

Immediately Kreacher looked sceptical. “Master Regulus _knows_ —”

“Many things,” he said smoothly. “Right now, I know that you don’t have to tell Mother what I do unless she asks, and she’s not going to ask about this.”

Kreacher frowned but said nothing.

Regulus tried a winning smile. “The Dark Lord wants your assistance tonight. I want you to go to him and do whatever he commands. When you come back, make no mention of it to Mother, is that clear?”

Kreacher’s ears went flat back in offense. “Kreacher does not serve the Dark Lord! Kreacher serves the Ancient and Noble House of Black.”

“And this member of the House of Black serves the Dark Lord,” Regulus said, “and he wants an elf. It is an honour to serve him. If Mother _asks_ what you did tonight, you don’t have to lie to her—”

“Kreacher cannot lie to Mistress,” the elf said sulkily.

“But I command you to avoid bringing it up with her or mentioning it,” Regulus finished.

Kreacher twisted the end of his ear, turning this over. “Master Regulus wants Kreacher to go to the Dark Lord and obey and not mention this to Mistress.”

“Yes,” said Regulus, relieved. “I’ll tell Beist that you won’t be home tonight. Mother never needs to know.”

Still sulky, Kreacher bowed. “Does Master Regulus have any other inconvenient orders for Kreacher?”

Regulus grinned at him. “When the Dark Lord is done with you, come home and pack my things for school.”

Without reply, Kreacher snapped his fingers and vanished.

Regulus made his way to his bedroom, pleased with himself.

* * *

Kreacher hadn’t returned that night. Regulus had been revising Transfiguration until the wee hours, but the elf hadn’t popped into his room before he crawled into bed at one—nor after, by the state of his messy room when he woke the next morning.

He frowned. Surely whatever the Dark Lord had wanted wouldn’t have taken this long. Kreacher could do a perfunctory cleaning of even a manor in a matter of hours, for something to have taken the whole night would mean the Dark Lord had ordered a cleaning much deeper than he had the right to as merely the borrower of the house elf. But did the Dark Lord know that?

Regulus didn’t think he did.

Of course, he couldn’t very well go to the Dark Lord unsummoned and say he needed his house elf back to pack his belongings for _school_.

No, Regulus decided, he would just have to pack for himself. Sighing, he waved his wand and watched belongings begin to pack themselves in his trunk.

* * *

By the time he arrived on the platform, he was beginning to be seriously worried. There was only so long he could hope to conceal Kreacher’s absence from his mother, and he had just lost any opportunity to make excuses about it. Fortunately he himself would be safely at Hogwarts for the next month, but after that, he could only imagine the words his mother would have in store for him for lending an elf, even to the Dark Lord. Never mind the crime of hiding it from her in the first place.

As a Slytherin prefect, he was supposed to patrol the carriages, but seventh years generally left that to fifth and sixth years, and he quickly found an empty carriage and locked the door. If Kreacher was dismissed at this point, he would come find Regulus first, and Reg didn’t want any witnesses to that conversation.

That foresight came in handy two hours later when Kreacher popped into the car and collapsed on the floor, breathing hard. He was dry, but absolutely reeked of seawater, and looked beyond exhausted. “Kreacher is sorry, Master Regulus, Kreacher did not mean to be late, Kreacher _tried_ , Kreacher tried and tried but Kreacher could not pop very far, Kreacher is a bad, _bad_ elf for not packing Master Regulus’s belongings—”

Regulus fell off the seat and onto his knees in front of the elf. “Kreacher, stop. What happened? Why couldn’t you pop back to me?”

Kreacher looked up at him, eyes bloodshot. “Kreacher could not, Master Regulus, Kreacher was too tired.”

“What did he do to you?” Regulus asked, voice weak with shock. House elves could get tired, yes, but it took more than a day’s work to do it. This smacked of torture and abuse, and while Regulus accepted that punishments sometimes needed to be handed out, Kreacher was _his_ elf. Not the Dark Lord’s. The Dark Lord should have come to him if there had been any problems.

Shaking his head, Kreacher managed to get into a sitting position, though his legs were trembling. “The Dark Lord ordered Kreacher to—” His voice caught, broke. “Kreacher was ordered to—”

Carefully, Regulus touched Kreacher’s shoulder. “I’m ordering you now, Kreacher. Tell me what happened from the moment you left me last night.”

Kreacher took a raspy breath, and obeyed.

By the end of his story, Regulus was white with shock—and rage. First, Kreacher had been kept cooling his heels in a waiting room for hours, until well into the night. This was disrespectful to Regulus, as well as hard on Kreacher to spend so much time inactive, but _then_. Then the Dark Lord Side-Along’d Kreacher to a godforsaken cave in the middle of nowhere and proceeded to place a number of wards, Dark and otherwise, on the entrance to the cave, before putting what Regulus knew to be a very complex spell on a sheer wall deep inside the mountain.

And then Kreacher had had to wait again, in a cavern filled with a dark black lake, while the Dark Lord summoned Inferius after Inferius and stationed them in the bottom of the lake, to attack any who touched it. Inferi could only be created by the one who killed them—the number was disturbing to Regulus, but not truly surprising.

But then the Dark Lord had grabbed Kreacher by the back of the neck, and pushed him into a tiny rickety boat, and moved the boat across the lake to an island at its centre, where there was a basin with a liquid in it that was not water.

The Dark Lord had ordered Kreacher to drink it.

Kreacher had.

It was at this point that his story had broken down and become disjointed. Kreacher had clearly drank some sort of poison—perhaps not a fatal one, but he looked sick and that was on top of the mental effects. The elf was sobbing as he talked, and his sentences were broken up by out-of-place pleas for something to stop. Then the Dark Lord had put a locket in the basin—a locket Kreacher had been disturbingly focused on, a locket that to Kreacher’s house elf senses had reeked of powerful magic, emotional magic, _dead_ magic—and filled it with potion again.

And then the Dark Lord had left on the boat, leaving Kreacher gasping and crying on the rocky island.

The potion contained a thirst component, Regulus guessed, because Kreacher had gone down to the water and tried to drink from it. The Inferi had grabbed him, and in that moment the Dark Lord had left the cave. With that, Kreacher had no longer been bound to obey him, and could pop back to Regulus.

Or try to.

Kreacher had torn himself loose from the Inferi, but the cave had been protected even against house elves, so Kreacher had had to make his way back to the entry before popping away.

Exhausted from the potion, Kreacher had only been able to move a few miles at a time, and from the way he was talking, the poison hadn’t left his body yet. It had taken him well into the morning to get close to the train tracks, and then he had rested until the train approached him.

It was good thinking from anyone, let alone a poisoned and exhausted house elf, and Regulus praised him for it.

Kreacher was still shaking when he finished, drawing his knees up to his chest with his ears tightly pressed to his head.

Regulus stared at him as the train rumbled on, trying to find a place to start. The Dark Lord had to think his elf was dead—the Dark Lord had asked to borrow Kreacher _believing_ that Kreacher would not survive the experience—what kind of good-for-nothing ill-bred moron did that? An honour, he had called it, an _honour_ for Kreacher to serve the Dark Lord.

He rubbed his hands over his face. “Beist,” he said quietly. First things first: his mother.

The other Black house elf appeared, scowling. “Beist knows Master Regulus is not supposed to call her,” she told him sharply, only then noticing Kreacher. “What has Master Regulus done to Kreacher?”

Regulus breathed out heavily. “He is sick, Beist. It is not his fault, but he needs to stay with me for a day or two and recover, do you understand?”

“House elves do not get sick,” Beist said. “What has Master Regulus done—”

“Wizard’s business,” Regulus told her, cutting her off. “Go home and do not mention this to Mother, am I clear? Perform your tasks and Kreacher’s and do not tell or hint to Mother that he is sick.”

Beist bowed and vanished, silent and judging.

Well that was one thing done. Kreacher was still curled up, and Regulus looked at him guiltily. If he hadn’t let the Dark Lord borrow him—but _how_ , how to refuse a wizard like that, how to refuse someone you had sworn allegiance to—but what power was in vows that were twisted like this, vows given to one who did not understand their power? The Dark Lord was his liege but he was _Kreacher’s_ , and to give one unto the other for a plaything—

“Kreacher,” Regulus said, chest tight. “Get into my trunk. You need healing and I—Mother cannot know.”

The elf uncurled himself and hobbled over to Regulus’s trunk. “Kreacher is _sorry_ , Master Regulus, Kreacher is sorry Kreacher is sorry Kreacher is sorry—”

“Shut up!” Regulus stared at him and for a moment didn’t know what else to do. “It…it doesn’t feel like it right now, but you didn’t do anything wrong, Kreacher, I promise. You did a lot of things very right, but right now I need you to get into my trunk and keep quiet.”

At that Kreacher got in the trunk, leaving Regulus to sit quietly in an otherwise empty carriage.

* * *

They arrived at Hogwarts hours later, and Regulus went quickly to the Slytherin dorms to put his trunk at the foot of his bed. The boys in his room had long since reached a truce regarding personal possessions and he didn’t seriously worry about it being disturbed. With that done, he went to Professor Slughorn’s office.

Slughorn didn’t hold office hours during holidays, but Regulus knew he didn’t leave the castle either, and he thought the Potions Master more useful for this than any other teacher.

The door swung open a moment after he knocked, and Regulus stepped into the office. Sometimes he wondered if the other Heads of House offices looked anything like this: stone walls covered in wooden bookshelves, and the shelves filled with pictures and trinkets, each from a favoured student. He was already thinking about what to give Slughorn after graduation.

“Ah, Mr Black,” Slughorn said from behind his desk. “A little early to be seeing you about extra Potions, isn’t it?”

It wasn’t an act to shuffle his feet, look at the floor. “A little, sir. Truth is, I had a question about a potion for you. A poison, I think.”

Slughorn raised his eyebrows. “Is this really a matter for a professor?”

He dismissed the concern. “It’s purely academic, professor. I just need to know the name.” He thought, added, “And the antidote.”

“Purely academic?” Slughorn sighed and shook his head. “Well, you know I never could resist a question from you, my boy. Have at it.”

Regulus rubbed at his face. “A deep green potion, which glowed. Not immediately fatal. Physical effects: shaking, very pale. But it’s mostly mental, sir, I wonder if it has powdered Graphorn. Leaves the subject afraid, deathly afraid, and convinced that they have failed someone. And thirst. They’re thirsty.” He tried to remember anything else that could help but didn’t get anywhere. He felt sick.

“Where did you say you encountered this potion, Mr Black?” Slughorn asked sharply, leaning forward.

He felt his shoulders rise. “I didn’t say, sir. If you don’t know what it is…”

Slughorn gave him a stern look. “If I find out you’ve been using this on someone…”

“I wouldn’t!” He wasn’t normally rude to professors, only Slughorn had to take him seriously. “Promise, professor. This is for a friend.” Or a house elf. What did it matter right now, except that Kreacher hadn’t been improving and wouldn’t without help. “He’s sick and I think he,” he swallowed, “I think he took it.”

Slughorn’s face fell. “The description you gave,” he said cautiously, “matches a potion called the Potion of Despair. It is not by itself fatal; however, like Felix Felicis, it can act upon the drinker’s future and those who drink it usually die within the week.”

Regulus’s stomach cramped. “Is there any—”

“Yes.” Slughorn looked down at his desk. “There is an antidote. It is not cheap, and it will take me two days.”

He breathed out slowly, holding on tightly to the words. _There is an antidote_. “I don’t think, sir…” He stopped, tried again. “I doubt my allowance is enough for this. Perhaps if I could borrow the instructions.”

Slughorn frowned. “You’re a good lad, to do something like this for your friend.”

_I’m really not_ , Regulus thought, trying not to squirm. _Not when I’m the one who got him into it_.

“You are shaping up to be a fine potion maker, Mr Black, but not on this level, not yet. I will brew it for you, but…” His moustache twitched. “Brewing it and resupplying my private stores afterward will cut into my patrol time, on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, for a month, you understand?”

Regulus felt all the blood rush out of his head. He was going to do it. Kreacher would recover. “Yes, sir. I understand perfectly.” Everyone knew prefects—of any house—could get a grade boost by covering some of Slughorn’s patrols. This wouldn’t be the first time Regulus had asked his head of house for a favour, for that matter, although a month was longer than Slughorn usually wanted.

“Come back on Tuesday, and keep your friend out of trouble until then,” Slughorn said, turning his attention back to his newspaper.

Regulus nodded, and went to go to bed. Whatever happened, he had a plan to help Kreacher, and that would have to be enough.


	2. The Cave (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have been updated with relevant triggers and I will keep them updated. This chapter: sexism, bullying disguised as school pranks, necromancy, some bits of religion that the narrator believes even if the author does not, and generally a lot of Pureblood views on everything.

When Regulus came to Potions on Tuesday, Slughorn passed him the antidote, and he got it into Kreacher by dinnertime. It wasn’t instantaneous, but before curfew the elf was well enough to pop back to Grimmauld Place and resume his normal duties with one new rule—he wasn’t to leave Grimmauld Place. As far as Regulus knew, the Dark Lord had no idea that Kreacher had survived and Regulus intended to keep it that way. Regulus in turn put away his notes early and went and took Slughorn’s regular patrol of the dungeon levels.

By the vapid, almost-kind letter he received from his mother on Thursday, she hadn’t noticed anything.

The week passed quickly, filled with classes, revising, and patrols. His professors all reminded their students that NEWTs were in two months and escalated homework assignments accordingly. Additionally, homework was supplemented by grading first and second year assignments, something his professors had started at the beginning of the year. The system had been introduced with a trite explanation that it would help the seventh years learn the material better, but Regulus was pretty sure it was so the professors could sleep in. Not to mention that in addition to _writing_ two essays per class per week, he was also grading the same number. _And_ prefect patrols twice a week, plus he was still covering Slughorn’s another two nights, and Julien Dolohov was running Quidditch practices _three_ nights a week in preparation for their final match against Hufflepuff. Somehow around it all Regulus found time to sleep at least six hours a night, although this was aided by Lorette Wilkes taking the longer stretches of prefect patrols in exchange for help with her Transfiguration essays.

All told, as they entered May, Regulus didn’t have a lot of time to think about anything but school. What had happened to Kreacher was bad, yes, and worrying, but much more concerning was how little time he had to revise. Even his eighteenth birthday had passed without fanfare, only a letter from his parents saying the party would be July 7th.

He managed to put it out of his mind until the end of May, when he stopped filling in for Slughorn’s patrols. Regulus spent the last Tuesday in May relaxing and enjoying himself, but on Thursday he’d had enough sleep to realise something: The Dark Lord had wanted a house elf for a _reason_. He had wanted a disposable life for some task, and Regulus would bet it had something to do with that locket. Only…what was it?

He put away his Runes notes and went to the owlery.

 _Dear_ _Aunt Cassiopeia_ _,_ he wrote, leaning against the wall and trying not to bang his elbow into it too hard when he reached the edge of the parchment, _I am looking for information on two overlapping areas which will not be in the Hogwarts library, and which I do not wish my parents to know about._

Aunt Cassiopeia was his Grandfather Pollux’s sister, but they were at least as different from each other as he and Sirius were. She wouldn’t tell on him to his parents, he was pretty confident on that. And she repaired books as a hobby and always had interesting recommendations.

_First, a locket. Glass front, locked. The interior is green, possibly velvet. It is a little smaller than your palm, and the front has a gold S on it. I am working off a second-hand description so some of this may be inaccurate. I do not know how old it is or its origin._

_Second, anything you have on necromancy. I think the locket is connected, but I do not know if it itself is necromantic or if it was made to be so later._

_I am given to understand you are still in contact with our departed. If so, tell him his charms are still holding and Mother pitched a fit._

_Yours,_

_Reg_

He attached it to his owl and left the owlery. He had revising to do, after all.

* * *

Aunt Cassiopeia’s response on the first weekend in June, Pentecost, was not so much a letter as a list of books, with annotations where he can get them from, and a scribble at the end— _He says_ _that’s_ _brilliant, and the charm is_ daurhast _, with a flick from the ground to the object._  
Regulus resolved to try it on something he didn’t care much about—he’d never been good at charms—and took the list of books to the library. Some of them were actually in the Hogwarts library, despite the content, and those would be the easiest to get to.

The first one he found was _An Encyclopaedia of Enchanted Artefacts_ by Cavador Chafira. The binding was late nineteenth century, but when he checked the index, it included one of Grindelwald’s cursed cloaks, which meant that the book _itself_ was enchanted—to be perpetually updating, presumably—and when he flipped back through the index, indeed he found an entry for _Encyclopaedia of Enchanted Artefacts (book)_.

The table of contents tried to skitter out of his eyesight until he tapped it firmly with his wand, but then he found a locket under S and quit caring about the vagaries of books.

_Salazar Slytherin’s Locket_

The page came to his fingers and he read carefully:

_Locket, Salazar Slytherin’s: The origin of the locket itself is unknown. Some evidence suggests that it is of goblin make originally, but there is nothing to suggest that goblins were ever allowed to examine it. Its ownership by Slytherin is well documented, and multiple eyewitnesses record him using it as a phylactery during battle. There is no evidence for it having any innate magical qualities; however, Slytherin valued it highly enough to take it with him when he left the school in the late 8 th century. After his death in 812, he left the locket to Hogwarts, and it remained there until the school was sacked in 1296. The ownership of the locket after 1296 is unknown._

Regulus tipped his chair back on its legs. That explained a lot more than he had been expecting—he knew his letter had been a little vague—but if the locket was _Slytherin’s,_ then of course the Dark Lord would want to protect it. The Dark Lord was a Parselmouth and surely if the locket had any abilities, he would be able to find out.

As far as it went, that was well enough. Only, why did the Dark Lord want to protect it? There were still neutral pureblood families that could be won over if the Dark Lord confirmed that he was the Heir of Slytherin, and Slytherin’s locket would be a huge help with that. Perhaps there was some power that Cavador Chafira hadn’t known about?

He sighed, and went looking for books on Slytherin. The library had some, but information on Hogwarts’s least favourite Founder was rare and well-hidden, and so it wasn’t until dinner that he realised he had been missed.

Barty came into the library, sandy hair falling into his eyes like always. “Where have you _been_?”

Regulus flinched, felt himself do it, and glanced around for the librarian. “Quiet,” he snarled at Barty, keeping his voice low.

His roommate pulled out a chair and flopped in it. “I _thought_ we were going to revise Arithmancy together. Only you never showed and I had to do it with _Kingsley_ instead.”

There were seven Slytherin boys in his year, but only three took Arithmancy, him and Barty and Kings, and Kings wasn’t Marked. In their year in Slytherin alone, there were thirteen students and fully six were Marked—but the other four hadn’t taken Arithmancy.

And Barty, reckless, impulsive Barty, only liked to hang out with those who agreed with him, which had been what drew him to the equally reckless, impulsive Bella.

“Maybe you should learn to revise on your own,” Regulus told him, returning the books to the cart.

Barty waved a hand. “We were _worried_.”

Regulus frowned at him. “We?” He put his notes in his bag, trying to focus on Barty—but if the locket _was_ Slytherin’s, and the Dark Lord was hiding it, and would have killed an elf to do so—

“Me and Julien and Edmund. We, Regulus. Us.”

Julien Dolohov and Edmund Nott. Regulus stood up and went to leave the library. “And not Lorette or Griselda?” Lorette Wilkes and Griselda Macnair. Regulus wasn’t good friends with all of them, but he certainly knew them well enough: All four had Marks on their arms.

Barty rolled his eyes, following. “They’re girls. What do you care?”

With Barty in this sort of mood, Regulus gave up entirely on studying or research, and turned towards the Great Hall. “I care because in three weeks we’re not going to be seventh year Slytherins, and we’re not going to be divided by house and sex. Can you understand that, Barty? We’re going to be in this together and you’re going to have to get used to working with girls.”

He knew the Dark Lord thought significantly more of Griselda than her older brother—as did he, for that matter. Walden was a bully with a knack for cruelty but not an ounce of sense; Griselda was understated and cunning.

Barty clattered down the stairs behind him, sighing loudly. “That’s not the _point_. The point is that you dumped us for some books and you didn’t say and I thought the Gryffindors—” He stopped speaking abruptly.

 _Oh_. Regulus felt himself abruptly returned to the world of schoolboy politics. “The Gryffindors can’t hurt me, Barty, you know that.”

Huffing, Barty shoved him. “Whatever. Just don’t disappear. Or we might really hurt them next time.”

Regulus paused, thought about this, and continued down the stairs. “The professors?”

“The Gryffs all said they fell down the stairs. Pomfrey said she’d never seen a fall cause tentacles before, but Reeds said he still has accidental magic.”

Regulus decided he wasn’t going to get anything done the rest of the night or possibly all of Sunday if Barty couldn’t let this go. “You hexed a group of Gryffindors?”

Barty turned sulky. “Like you haven’t.”

He bit back his reaction of _Only when my brother was there_ , because Sirius wasn’t, not anymore, and that wasn’t relevant anyway. “What did I just say about our upcoming graduation?”

“God, Reg, what happened to you? Before the holidays, you had no problems with us having some fun. I get you needed a favour from Sluggy and you were tired from patrols, but you’ve got no excuse now. You’re just being a prat.”

“Himself had some words with me,” Regulus started, but stopped, realizing impossibility of explaining anything. _The Dark Lord tried to kill my house elf and now I’m thinking that this is bigger and scarier_ _than we thought_. Barty wouldn’t swallow that; Barty had never met anything scarier than his father and tales of a cave and ancient artifacts and Dark secrets would only excite him. He wouldn’t understand the thought running around Regulus’s head: Maybe the Dark Lord didn’t understand anything about their sort at all, maybe he was just pretending, how else could he take someone else’s elf and all but kill it? And what, _it’s real now_? As if it hadn’t been at their inductions. As if the idea that they were all officially fugitives wasn’t real enough.

Regulus groaned. “Look, let’s drop it. I’ll tell you where I’m going, but he’s given me something to research,” true, if he stretched _given_ to its limits, “and I’ll be spending a lot of time in the library.”

Barty shrugged, and pushed past him into the Great Hall. “Fine. I can only assume it’s more interesting than second order equations,” he added, disgruntled.

* * *

No one else was as stressed about his disappearance as Barty—he thought Julien at least had got some enjoyment out of the whole thing—and Regulus was able to spend the next Saturday in the library again.

There were rumours and hints of what the locket had been—Slytherin had fought a duel against Ravenclaw in 802 and pulled a vial of Basilisk blood out of a locket—but nothing substantial enough for Regulus’s taste. He spent days in the library, and the most he turned up was that Slytherin used the locket to store items, which probably meant it had been hit with an Undetectable Extension Charm—but the Dark Lord could do that himself. He didn’t need to protect something just because it was extended, so it must be because it had been _Slytherin’s_. Only, again, why not show it off? Why surround it with Inferi and death magic?

Somehow, Regulus increasingly found himself shirking scheduled revision meetings in order to dig through the restricted section—Slughorn had always been willing to sign his passes since he was both a Black and a member of the Slug Club—for obscure and dangerous books.

It wasn’t until Sunday, looking at the last week before the NEWTs, that Regulus realised at some point he had become obsessed by the locket. He hadn’t studied for Defence hardly at all and the revisions he had done for the other classes had been superficial.

Yet he was still driven by uncertainty. What in Merlin’s name did the Dark Lord want with Slytherin’s locket? Why spend so much to protect it if it was only a locket? NEWTs could be retaken if need be; he found it hard to care about the upcoming tests. Whatever the Dark Lord knew about the locket that had him killing all witnesses, or trying to—that was urgent.

He was also unsure, he realised, sitting in the library, what he was planning to do with this information. The Dark Lord had tried, had _intended_ to kill his house elf. That was clear enough, and almost unforgivably rude. Did that mean he should turn traitor? Did an attempt on his elf’s life outweigh the oath he had sworn, the tattoo on his arm?

Probably not—but what _did_ the locket do? Could it pull down the defences of Hogwarts? Crush the Ministry? Detect someone’s ancestry? Regulus didn’t know, and worse, found himself not trusting the Dark Lord’s motives. Why, _why_ was he keeping this secret? What could be the point? If the locket was a weapon, or a power play, it was best to announce it—so why not?

He stumbled back to the dorm shortly before curfew, head pounding and fingers stained black with ink. Revising could wait—tomorrow he would look into what powers the Dark Lord could find so valuable.

* * *

Somehow, without him being quite sure of it, the last week slipped away. Friday morning the seventh years were presented with their NEWT schedules; Regulus glared at his, hoping it would change to something more appealing, like frog spleen. There was one each day, with the written in the morning and practical in the afternoon: Potions, Runes, Arithmancy, Transfiguration, and Defence.

He thought, talking with Edmund, that he could take the waking hours for study and the time after curfew to sit in the common room with books from the other boys’ collections—none of them had questioned that the Dark Lord wanted research done, and Ed, at least, had a nice set of restricted books in his trunk. This would work well enough, assuming he could function on four hours of sleep.

He could not.

Regulus got through the Potions written on years of private tutoring from Severus Snape, a half-blood a year ahead of him who could be paid to teach students if they weren’t too thick, and the practical on muscle memory alone. He went to the library afterward, to sit with Ed and stare at their Runes notes together, but it went so poorly that he was glad when the librarian called curfew and he could take Edmund’s entire collection and sit in the back corner of the common room.

Edmund had a book on enchanted objects, but Regulus had read that over the weekend and found nothing of value, so he turned to the other books. Two on blood magic, one on Dark magic, one on something called _conteram mundi_ that made Regulus’s fingertips itch, one on Animagi—he hadn’t thought Edmund would be interested in that, as it came with some severe drawbacks—and one on necromancy.

He set the one on Animagi and _conteram mundi_ aside. The locket couldn’t have anything to do with the former, and he wasn’t so reckless as to read the latter without backup. One of the ones on blood magic he knew his father had, so it could wait. That left three.

Kreacher had said that the locket reeked of three kinds of magic: powerful magic, emotional magic, and dead magic. Both blood and Dark magic were powerful and Dark magic was emotional—but only necromancy was all three.

The book was titled _Beyond Death: Immortality,_ _Invincibility_ _, and_ _Resurrection_. There was no listed author. As far as Regulus could tell from a quick inspection, it hadn’t been enchanted—which in and of itself was concerning. Books on necromancy were very, very tightly controlled by the Ministry and the surviving ones tended to be thoroughly enchanted to prevent someone from turning them in. He wanted to wake Edmund up to check, but it was after midnight and he was pretty sure that would lead to a duel in the Slytherin dorms.

Instead he eased the book open.

With a mix of horror and relief, he found his tongue swelling in his mouth and blocking his throat as words swam in front of his eyes: _This fate awaits you if you betray our knowledge to the authorities. Speak of it only to those who will keep it safe._

The curse held for a moment longer and then released him. Gasping, Regulus turned to the table of contents and prepared for a long night.

* * *

Tuesday morning Regulus stumbled his way through the Runes written and skipped lunch in order to nap.

“Find something interesting?” Edmund said, shaking him awake.

Regulus snarled, dragging his hands down his face. “Time is it?”

“Twenty minutes till the practical.” Edmund helped him sit up. “Look, Reg… This thing himself has you researching. Can you bring me in on it?”

He had probably been asleep for an hour, at most. It wasn’t long enough. “No.” He blinked, and remembered that it was Edmund’s book that he needed. “Sorry. Have you read that necromancy book?” He was starting to wish that _he_ hadn’t read the necromancy book; there was more in there than he had ever wanted to know about what could be done to delay death or to restore something after the fact.

Edmund’s face went very serious. “I have. I wouldn’t think… even for us, that’s…”

“I know,” Regulus said quietly. “I should finish it tonight though.” This didn’t seem to make Edmund feel any better. “I’m not, I’m not _using_ it, Ed. Just need to read it.” His mouth felt like it had been filled with mothballs—perhaps because of his lack of sleep, but more likely due to the book. It crawled under his skin like nothing else had, and he finally felt like he understood why Kreacher had been so upset after the cave: if this was a book, what would the real thing feel like?

Straightening his robes, Edmund shook his head. “Bad week to read that in, all I’m saying. If it could have waited a week, you’d be much better off.”

Didn’t he know it. But it felt like he had no control anymore when it came to his research; it just expanded and took over any other interest. “They’re just NEWTs,” he said instead, trying to channel his father’s nonchalance towards his academics.

Edmund didn’t seem to agree, but let the matter drop. “Runes practical. Let’s go.”

* * *

In retrospect, it might have been better to skip the Runes practical. Midway through he mixed up two runes that should not have been mixed up and blew up the examination room, saving only himself and his examiner due to quick work with a shield. The examiner was not impressed and dismissed him with a muttered comment about saving the wandwork for Charms.

Edmund and Kingsley teamed up, for once, to make him eat dinner, but after that he went back to their dorm—and the book.

 _The most reliable path towards immortality_ , he read, _is said to be a Horcrux, which is the darkest magic yet known, and thus one of the most powerful. As established prior, the essential trait of life is the possession of a soul, and also, with sufficiently primal acts of magic, one can split a soul. Therefore, one may conclude, if one fractures one’s own soul and binds a portion of it to an object, then even the removal of one’s primary soul cannot truly be fatal._

If one did _what_?

Regulus stared at the book. Souls were important, and holy, and he might be a lax church-goer, at best, but he thought the church was fairly clear on the importance of leaving your soul be.

He kept reading, curious and filled with dread, half-hoping the author had been speaking in metaphor.

No luck: A Horcrux was an object that someone’s soul had been bound to, through a series of exceptionally bloody and sadistic acts. Only certain—unnamed—things could destroy it, and as long as it existed, the creator’s body could be destroyed, but they would always be able to reform. Furthermore, the Horcrux had powers of its own, unrelated to immortality: It could reach out to those around it and warp their thoughts until they matched those of its creator. Being free of any body made it mentally more powerful than any wizard, and given the type of wizards that made Horcruxes, Regulus could only imagine what sorts of thoughts would result. The author even went on to speculate that using a previously enchanted object, or something with personal significance, made this trait still more powerful.

When Regulus thought about the locket it made a sort of horrible sense. Kreacher had said it was powerful and felt of death, which would be explained if it was a Horcrux. And if it was Slytherin’s locket, well, there was both an enchanted object _and_ one with personal significance to the Dark Lord. Plus, it being part of his soul would explain why he wanted it protected, beyond even the benefit from boasting of it.

Regulus found himself staring blankly at the book on his knees. The Dark Lord had a Horcrux. He had murdered someone, in full knowledge of what he was doing, and taken the body to holy ground, a church or a graveyard, before desecrating it in every possible way and marrying part of his soul to Slytherin’s locket.

And in doing so, had damned himself beyond all hope. While the Muggles debated religion, wizards knew they came with immortal souls. How could you not, with the existence of ghosts? And so after death, depending on one’s actions, one’s soul ascended to Heaven, descended to Hell, or went to Purgatory to purify and prepare to enter Heaven. Ghosts merely delayed the choice, they did not avoid it altogether.

When you made a Horcrux, all of the books agreed you anchored part of your soul to a physical object, so that when you were killed, your soul did not move on but remained in the object. This tearing, this maiming of your immortal, supposedly immutable soul meant that in order for you to die, the Horcrux had to be destroyed—destroying your soul as well. If this happened after the rest of you had already died, then that was it. There would be no redemption and no salvation. You had destroyed yourself, committed the ultimate suicide.

There was a loophole though, that Regulus wondered if the Dark Lord knew: if the Horcrux was destroyed first, then the remainder of your soul, tattered as it was, could still enter Purgatory. But it could never move on. You would be in Purgatory forever.

That was what the Dark Lord had condemned himself to, a fate that no pureblood would ever wish on himself, a fate that made Regulus nauseous and shaky. He had known that the Dark Lord would murder at a thought. That wasn’t the problem. But to have so little care over his _own_ soul—that unsettled Regulus.

And how was the Dark Lord supposed to restore pureblood supremacy if he had no understanding of the very basic realities purebloods lived with? Souls were immortal and immutable, and changing that was anathema. What point was there in restoring their culture, if it was restored by a man who had no idea how valuable, how holy a soul was? A man who didn’t understand ritual or oaths, a man who took no interest in religion and obligations, a man who was as likely to lead Regulus to death as to glory—and now, like as not to destroy him completely.

He sat up the whole night, staring into the fire and wondering what had gone so wrong.

* * *

Afterwards he remembered nothing of the Arithmancy exam, except that he presumably had not blown anything up in it. He skipped dinner and went straight to bed, and woke up the next morning to Kingsley yanking him out of bed towards the shower.

“I don’t give a shit what’s going on in your head, Black, but if you act today like you’ve been acting this week we’re all gonna get turned into dormice, and that’s not how I plan to end my Hogwarts career.”

Regulus shrugged his nightshirt off and turned the shower on cold. “Then why the fuck didn’t you do this Tuesday?”

Kingsley leaned against the other wall, already dressed. “Tuesday I still had hope you would come to your senses.” The Slytherin showers were communal: Kingsley had known he was Marked since the morning after Easter hols last year. But he had never commented on it—any more than Reg and the others had made an issue of Kingsley’s offer to join the Aurors. “Edmund and I talked. If you don’t sleep tonight, we’ll _stupefy_ you.”

They would, too. Reg was a good dueler, but not tired, and not two-on-one. He showered quickly and silently, not having anything to say. All he saw behind his eyelids was Kreacher, shaking on the train floor, describing the locket. Maybe it would be better to be knocked out.

Kingsley escorted him to breakfast, too, and hovered menacingly until Regulus took two pieces of toast. The other boys were already there, but no one said anything, so it must have been a group idea.

He had to admit, Kingsley had a point: Transfiguration and Defence were the two worst classes to do while exhausted. Transfiguration in particular was as close to the Dark Arts as got taught at Hogwarts. It was intent based, rather than action based—while charms acted the same whether you meant to cast them or not, to cast a successful transfiguration, you had to want it. The Dark Arts took the principle to an extreme. Regulus thought himself rather good at all three, but not sleepless and on an empty stomach.

As it was, he found himself dozing off midway through the written and woke up in a panic to Flitwick calling ten minutes left. He scrawled the last answers and went to lunch with Edmund on one elbow and Barty the other. With effort, he ate a few pieces of fruit and then faced the practical.

Griselda Marshbanks made him turn various objects into animals and back and then had him transfigure portions of his own body. He did decently, thanks to a night of sleep and the food, and instead of going to the common room, where Edmund and Kingsley could continue watching him, went to the library.

He didn’t have Edmund’s book, but he didn’t think he needed it. He knew what the locket was, and he knew what the Dark Lord was doing with it. All that remained was to decide what he was going to do.

What the Dark Lord had done was abhorrent. It was. Regulus would admit that he was hardly a virtuous person, but there were lines. The Dark Lord had stood on sacred ground and poured blood over his head, he had destroyed his own soul in pursuit of immortality, and Regulus was increasingly sure that the only one who would benefit from his victory—if the Dark Lord had even envisioned such—was the Dark Lord himself.

Yet, people were dying. Good people, _purebloods._ The Dark Lord didn’t seem to care, except when one of his plans failed. But even then, not about the people. Would he destroy them in order to put himself in power?

Probably, Reg realized, stomach sinking. It would fit. And really, hadn’t Severus mentioned something of the sort to him at the last meeting, about how they didn’t seem to have a long term plan? That would also fit, if all the Dark Lord wanted was to increase his own power.

As it slipped past curfew, Regulus sat in a corner of the library, staring at his fingers, and wondering if the right way, the honourable way, the way that would help the pureblood cause the most, really was to make sure the Dark Lord failed.

He finally made his way out of the library—and straight into Professor Slughorn.

“Ah, professor--”

Slughorn looked at him sternly. “Your roommates said you had not returned to the common room by curfew. Is something the matter, Mr Black?”

Regulus blinked at him, trying to find the right words. _Yes, yes, I signed my life away to a madman and I’ve only just realized it._ “No, sir. Got caught up in revising.” Which was still no excuse for missing curfew, something Slughorn was well aware of. Regulus just couldn’t come up with anything better, with his mind full of uncertainty and fear.

“Which well may be, but it is still after midnight and you have, I believe, one last test tomorrow.”

He wanted to groan. There would be points taken for this, and that meant Julien would get involved, and the telling off would be bad enough if it just came from Kingsley and Barty. Desperately, he tried to get Slughorn off track. “Sir, in studying, I came across Horcruxes and it shook me. That’s all.” This wouldn’t count, would it? If he didn’t mention the book, just something in it…

Slughorn went white. “Where did you learn that word?”

“In an old Defence book, sir,” Regulus said, feeling a tingling pressure in his face as the curse bent over him.

“Very well,” Slughorn said sharply. “But that’s nasty magic, Mr Black. Go to bed before I have to take points.”

Regulus nodded and left, the pain vanishing and leaving behind yet more questions. Slughorn had been Head of Slytherin for years, had he been here when the Dark Lord had been? Had the Dark Lord _asked_ him? _Why_?

Groaning, Regulus slipped into his bed at last, thankful that everyone else was asleep. His head hit the pillow with relief, but he couldn’t sleep himself, only laid there and ran his fingers over the Mark.

* * *

It felt like only moments later that Edmund was shaking him awake. “Defence time, and I’ll have my books back.”

Regulus handed them over without comment.

He stumbled through the written portion even though the only answers which came easily were the ones about Dark Arts and not the defence against them. But that still far surpassed what happened in the practical.

First he messed up his Shield Charm so badly that the examiner was able to freeze his legs, and then in shaking off the spell, forgot that this was supposed to be a formal duel and hit the examiner with a bolt of raw, angry power.

The examiner blocked it but not without some concern. “What was that, Mr Black?”

Regulus knew perfectly well what it was: on the edge of the Ministry laws regulating what was and was not Dark magic. “The, uh, the result of too much late night revision.”

The examiner sighed. “Take care, Mr Black. Not everyone will accept that excuse. We start again on three, two, one—”

The rest of the duel went without incident, and Regulus thanked God that the examiner was feeling lenient.

And then—

He was done.

He didn’t remember much of Saturday. Some students partied, and he might have joined in, but later he thought he probably spent the day sleeping instead.

Sunday was the train to London. His parents met him at the platform, his father greeting him with an approving pat on the shoulder, his mother just looking smug.

They turned, Regulus seeing the stunned look on some Muggle parent’s face, and Apparated in quick succession, one two three.


	3. The Cave (3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains: Social drinking, canon typical violence, fire, murder, implied patricide, fantasy racism, emotional abuse.
> 
> Thanks to sabreprincess and thenoacat for betaing, special thanks to thenoacat for helping me fix all the problems that were in the initial draft(s) of Chapters 2-4.  
> A minor continuity error has been fixed in Chapter 2: Regulus is no longer writing to Uncle Alphard (who is dead), but to Aunt Cassiopeia (who is not).

 

Grimmauld Place seemed more confining than it had before. For the last seven years he’d had somewhere to escape to, a place he could return to when his parents got too overbearing. Now it was his mother or the Dark Lord, and he no longer knew which was worse.

For the first week he stayed out of her way as much as possible, helped by his father’s insistence that “He’s a man now, Burga! He doesn’t need to talk to his mother.” Instead he came up with plan after plan to sneak into the cave and destroy the Horcrux—without either his mother or the Dark Lord finding out. Every one was variously flawed, and he grew increasingly frustrated.

His mother didn’t drag him out of his room until the day before the party, and even then it was only to go get fitted for dress robes. She wasn’t particularly kind about it, but he had the sense that finishing school raised him in her eyes from a flawed and second-best child to, at least, a passable adult.

* * *

The day of the party came, and at least at first, it went smoothly. His friends came, all of the ones with tattoos at least, and some of their parents. The adults went upstairs to the smaller sitting room to talk or whatever it was they did, and Corban Yaxley brought in casks of firewhisky to put in the kitchen.

Rodolphus recruited a group to play exploding snap on the old table. Put a card on, take a drink. Collapse the stack, drain the bottle. Cheat with magic and get caught, and you got hit with an Intoxicating Hex and _then_ took a drink.

Reg was pretty sure Rabastan was cheating badly on purpose, but who cared. There were enough people there that they started breaking off into other groups. Bella took a few to the sitting room to play a Black rules version of truth or dare, Julien had come up with a practice snitch and had other Quidditch players trying to toss it into levitating cups of firewhisky. If you got one in, you drained the cup, if you didn’t, another cup was set out.

In the middle of this, Severus came in, took one look at the amount of alcohol, and walked back out again. Regulus followed him hastily. “Hey—you only just arrived!”

Severus turned a scathing look on him. “How many drunk purebloods do you have down there? Ten? Fifteen?”

Regulus shut his mouth.

“It’s a very nice party,” Severus said bitterly, “but I have work to do.”

He wanted to storm off, but Severus was the only person he knew who occasionally regretted taking the Mark. “Wait. I need to talk to you.”

“You’ve passed the Potions NEWT, I would _assume_ , what—”

“The war,” Regulus snapped. “Don’t make me say it here.”

Severus sneered, but then all at once his face relaxed. “Fine. Three pm Tuesday at my place,” he said, casual as if they were still scheduling revision sessions. “If that’s all you wanted me here for, I may as well go.”

Regulus let him leave, knowing it was better to let him go than try to keep Severus anywhere he didn’t want to be. Just as he was heading back downstairs, there was another knock at the door.

He went and opened it, wondering who was missing—or had Severus forgotten something?

It was two Aurors. “We have received credible information that there is a meeting of illegal activists here. Give us permission to enter, or we will enter by force.”

Without really thinking, Regulus shut the door again. “ _Father!_ ”

Orion came down the stairs, wand drawn. “Who is here?”

“Aurors,” Regulus said, tense and focused the way he was during Death Eater meetings.

His father frowned deeply. “They should have no reason to come here. Unless you were sloppy about the invitations.”

Regulus blanched. “No! No, father.”

Orion made a sceptical noise, low in his throat, and moved towards the door. “Very well. You may as well come out and witness.”

Regulus followed him out onto the front doorstep. The Aurors stepped back, pulling their wands out.

“You are in danger of violating the Statute of Secrecy,” Orion said coolly. “Leave before I am forced to defend my home.”

“You will let us in,” one of the Aurors burst out before Orion cut him off.

“I will not. I am Earl of Huntingdon and the house of a lord is inviolate.” Orion stepped down and Regulus hung behind his right shoulder, pulling his wand out from his pocket.

The other Auror nodded her head. “Yes, and _only_ that of a named lord. Your title is provisional until your father passes.”

“An issue the Wizengamot has not yet settled.”

“But the DMLE has,” the Auror said firmly. “We will enter, with or without your permission.”

Orion did not move. Eventually the rash Auror, the first one to speak, waved his wand and cast nonverbally.

Regulus jerked, but his father blocked it and sent something back.

This was _nothing_ like duels in Defence, Regulus realized when the other Auror joined in. Two-on-one wasn’t allowed, and neither was continuous silent casting—there was too much risk someone would slip a curse in.

There was another exchange of spells before Regulus could get his mind together enough to respond.

 _Protego_!

The shield was shaky and fell the moment one of the Aurors cast. Regulus lashed out in fear and felt the spell leave his wand half formed. The Auror deflected it, but then they were casting at him too. He couldn’t tell how they could cast so quickly when it took him seconds to concentrate enough, but he tried regardless.

After a moment the Aurors backed off. “Last chance, Huntingdon. Lay down your wand and let us in.”

Regulus’s father snapped a spell that Reg didn’t know and a portion of cobblestone exploded.

Regulus leaped backwards, even as the male Auror swore.

There was a noise—someone shouting? Or a spell?—and a strong smell of sulfur, and then his father was spun around and thrown backwards.

Regulus froze and stared at him.

His father was silent and still and crying, face pale and wet with tears, legs pulled up tight to his chest but robes knocked askew to show something moving on his legs, something crawling and bubbling and growing.

Somehow Regulus couldn’t manage to breathe, or think, or do anything. It felt like someone had unleashed a dragon in his chest, he was that full of pain and anger and heat. Grimmauld Place had belonged to the Blacks for nearly as long as there had been Blacks, and never had one been struck down on its doorstep, never had anyone _dared_ —

It was suddenly very, very easy to focus. The world was crystal clear. Regulus looked up at the Aurors who had so unkindly intruded on Black territory, and with all of his rage and fear and grief he said, “ _Ignis exacerbis_.”

A dragon burst from his wand, a dragon made of heat and flame, a dragon that fell on the Aurors and took them so fast they didn’t have time to scream. He stood there and watched the Fiendfyre spread, watched it grow and eat and _consume_. In a moment there were no longer any Aurors. In a moment, there was nothing but flame.

It was the hardest thing he had ever done to step forward and breathe out and turn fury and despair into calmness. “ _Exstinguo_.” A general purpose quenching spell, but with the force of stubbornness and security behind it, the force of a member of the House of Black on his own soil, a wizard in his own right.

The fire subsided reluctantly, fighting him, but he was a Black and he was a wizard and someday he would be a Duke of the Kingdom of England and there was nothing fire could do to him.

Moving stiffly, he stepped past his father—writhing, but nearly exhausted—and into Grimmauld Place, past the spells that blocked sound in or out. Movements had to be controlled, tight, small, lest he explode completely and shatter into a million pieces. “Bellatrix,” he said quietly, but the house knew and vibrated with it.

She came into the hallway, overrobe missing completely, her house robe hanging partially off one shoulder. “Oh dear.” She looked past him at his father, one eyebrow coming up. “I don’t suppose it was you?”

Only Bella, whose father had died mysteriously earlier that year, would say that. Only Bella, who had delivered the news of this death to the Dark Lord and expected a reward for it, _could_ say that to him right now. Regulus had nothing to say in response.

Bellatrix shrugged. “Since he’s my uncle, we should probably take him to St Mungo’s.”

“Probably,” Regulus managed to say. He didn’t say: I killed two people. He didn’t say: It was my fault, I froze and wasn’t fast enough.

Without much care for limbs or walls, Bellatrix grabbed one of his father’s arms and pulled him upright. “Well? You can have your breakdown later.”

He took his father’s other arm, disturbed that his father hadn’t said anything or reacted to this manhandling, more disturbed that he was participating in it, and let Bellatrix Side-Along them both to St Mungo’s.

There was the familiar dizzy feeling of coming out of and into the world in a heartbeat, and then he was staring at the receptionist.

The receptionist stared back, looking interested. “Got an injury?”

Regulus noted somewhere, absently, that it was a sign that even Bellatrix was scared that she didn’t snap anything. “My father—was cursed,” he said, words disjointed.

It occurred to him that the real story wouldn’t do him any favours.

Interest fanned, the receptionist pulled out a quill and parchment. “Name? Of the afflicted.”

“Orion Arcturus Black.”

The receptionist’s eyebrows went up, but she made no comment. “Your names.”

“Regulus Arcturus Black,” he said, trying to come up with a story, any story, “and Bellatrix Lestrange.”

Between them, his father made a strangled gasping noise; his eyes opened, then they rolled back in his head and he collapsed. Bellatrix sighed.

The receptionist was visibly trying not to stare. “Reason for visit today?”

Regulus blinked at her. “A curse, I told you.”

“What was the effect of this curse?” the receptionist asked as if he was a first year.

He ground his teeth. “It hit him in the knee, then he fell over. There was something crawling, it looked like it was crawling inside his skin.”

The receptionist looked sceptical.

“I didn’t want to _strip_ him,” Regulus snapped, finally out of patience. “And he’s not precisely up to answering questions.”

After writing something down, the receptionist said, “Did you hear a spell being cast?”

“No.”

She sighed. “Can you give me any more details on this curse? Knowing what caused this could make the difference, you know.”

Regulus bit back several comments and stood on Bellatrix’s foot. “We were throwing a party. For my graduation. I invited a bunch of friends over, we were having a few in our kitchen. My father came downstairs. Someone cursed him—I think he thought he was going to take away the alcohol. Or maybe he was just too drunk, I don’t know.”

He thanked God and Merlin that Bella was no stranger to half assed stories.

The receptionist stared at him over her glasses. “A nonverbal spell, while that drunk?”

Regulus scowled at her. “Yes.”

She let it go. “Could this friend come in and give a statement? We don’t want to arrest him, we just want to—”

“No,” Regulus said, on firmer ground now. It was standard for noble houses to refuse to turn over visitors to the authorities; the receptionist wouldn’t be surprised.

She wasn’t. “Very well,” she said in a tone that implied she wanted to remove all privileges from noble houses and interrogate his fictional guest personally. “Who is his next of kin?”

Regulus felt his stomach sink through the floor. “My mother. Walburga Black.”

The receptionist looked smug at having found a way to get back at him for the ‘friend’. “One of you should take Mr Black to the fourth floor where a Healer will meet you. The other is required by law to inform Ms Black.”

Regulus and Bellatrix looked at each other. He hadn’t even _thought_ of his mother until the receptionist had asked, and he suspected Bellatrix hadn’t either. His mother had a tendency towards hysterics, not to mention that she would have asked too many questions and been unable to keep quiet.

As the son, it was his responsibility to tell her what had happened to her husband—but at the same time, he should stay and care for his father.

Bellatrix sighed dramatically. “ _Fine_. You owe me.”

“This falls under family responsibilities, surely,” Regulus said weakly.

She had already dropped his father’s arm and was flouncing off towards the exit. “A family favour, then,” she said, and Disapparated.

“I don’t suppose she was the ‘friend’,” the receptionist said, eyebrows raised.

Regulus did his best to pull his father upright, then decided a levitation charm would be more practical. “No. If it was her, she would have told you.”

The Healers were efficient and practical. Within minutes of arriving on the fourth floor, his father had been whisked away and brought back, cleaned, dressed in a hospital gown, and with an attendant Healer with a clipboard. He had been assigned a private room and Regulus had been told to wait outside on a bench while the Healer did his job.

Waiting was not one of Regulus’s strong suits. He fidgeted and played with the edges of his robes for the interminable time it took for Bellatrix to arrive with his mother.

He stood when they entered the hallway and wiped sweaty palms on his robes. “No change.”

His mother looked at him, snorted, and went straight to the door. “Of course there’s no change, not when this hospital is run by Muggle-lovers with their _clipboards_! Did you even check his Healer’s family, Reggie? Of course not, you can’t be trusted to do anything on your own, Merlin knows I tried to teach you but—” She pulled on the door handle and visibly realised it was sealed shut.

“They don’t want anyone interrupting,” Regulus told his feet.

“I’m not _anyone_ ,” his mother screeched, “I’m his wife! They’ll let me in or these Mudbloods will get what’s coming to them!”

Regulus and Bellatrix exchanged looks. It wasn’t that either of them thought highly of Muggleborns, more that they were both too politically minded to say so out loud in public

All things considered, it was really for the best that the Healer opened the door when he did. “Are you Ms Black?”

“ _Missus_ ,” his mother corrected. “I want to see my husband. What’s wrong with him? Haven’t you fixed it yet?” She craned her neck to try and see past the Healer.

To his credit, the Healer barely looked fazed. “We are trying to determine what’s wrong with him, Mrs Black. I was coming out to ask a few more questions of your son, who has not been helpful.”

Regulus resented this. He thought bringing his father and telling everything he knew about the curse _was_ helpful, thank you.

“What do you mean, he hasn’t been _helpful_?” his mother squealed, turning on Regulus. “Are you telling me that you have been an obstacle to these generous Healers?”

Regulus stared at the floor again. “I only told them that it was one of my friends who cursed Father, but I won’t tell them who because it happened on Black territory and as such, is a Black family matter. Not something for the Ministry.”

She blinked, and he watched her change targets. “Well of _course_ it’s not something for the _Ministry_. They forget enough about our rights as it is. You sir, Healer! Who’s your family, then? Are you pureblood? I won’t have a Mudblood alone with my husband, I won’t have it!”

That got the Healer to jut his jaw. “Mrs Black, if you won’t tell us anything about who cursed your husband, you can’t help right now. Thank you, I will bring updates when I have them.” He stepped back into the room and slammed the door.

Regulus put his head in his hands. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

It was. Somewhere around midnight, Bellatrix left to go clean everyone out of Grimmauld Place. Only then did his mother move from her watch of the door and turn on him, face drawn into tight angry lines. “This was _your_ fault,” she hissed in an undertone, leaning over him. “You miserable excuse for a wizard, _you_ got him into that battle.”

He flinched, shoulders coming up to his jawline. There wasn’t anything he could say, even if he was willing to risk upsetting her even more. He hadn’t been fast enough. He wasn’t ready for a fight, and his father had misplaced his trust.

“I could have you disowned for this, you know.” Her face was nearly touching his and she still smelled of alcohol. “I could, I could go to my father-in-law and have him, but I won’t, you hear me? You’re stuck with me, Reggie, you can’t get rid of me the way you got rid of him. No, I’ve got to keep you, you have to be the heir because my cursed brother sired nothing but bitches, but that doesn’t mean I’ll let you be flawed, you hear me?”

He nodded, mute. It was impossible to head her off when she got like this, and much better to just let her talk herself out.

“No, no, Reggie, you’re going to be perfect for Mama aren’t you? A perfect little heir.” She had talked herself around from anger to passion, and he didn’t like the crooning tone in her voice.

Feeling like he should agree, Regulus said, “Yes, Mother.”

She sniffed. “I’ll make you pay,” she said, and like that she was back to anger. “You little worm, you let him get hurt on purpose, I know you’re a better wizard than that, you let the Aurors curse my husband-”

There was no real input required from Regulus but to nod at the appropriate moments. His mother wound down eventually and returned to standing in front of the door. She got like this, sometimes, and it was always better just to let her talk herself out. Besides, Regulus was occupied with his responsibility in his father’s cursing.

He thought it was around dawn that the Healer came out again, looking haggard. “He is stable,” he said carefully, “but not healed, and we won’t be able to get him so tonight. We’re putting him in Long Term Spell Damage until he’s either recovering or,” the Healer swallowed, looking away from Regulus’s mother, “not. We should know in a couple weeks.”

“That long?” his mother said, oddly subdued. Maybe it was hitting her the same way it was him: his father was in that room, maybe dying, and there wasn’t anything anyone could do about it.

“Yes,” the Healer said shortly, swaying like he was about to pass out. “Like I said, everything is stable, we just… don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

Before his mother could say anything in response to that terrifying statement, another Healer came out of the room, equally frazzled if less visibly exhausted. “You two should go home now. There’s nothing you can do for him and we’ll Floo you the moment something changes.”

His mother frowned. “Can’t I _see_ him? Let him know I’m here?”

The Healers exchanged glances. “No to the second,” the new one said, tucking flyaway hair behind her ear. “He’s unconscious and will be staying that way until we’re sure he’s no longer in pain. To the first…” Eventually she shrugged. “You may as well.” Unspoken, but Regulus could guess: _Maybe it’ll keep you off my back._

She opened the door fully, and Mother stepped in. Regulus followed, hesitant.

Orion Black was a handsome man in the manner of the Blacks, slender with delicate features and striking colouring—in his case, deep brown hair, pale skin, and jade eyes. The Healers had him laid out on a table and stripped to his linen smock, which covered him neck to knee. Regulus stared at his face for a moment, finding a bit of relief in how relaxed it was, before daring to look at his father’s legs.

One was normal. The other… It looked like the curse had first eaten away the muscle down to the bone, but only the muscle, leaving skin untouched, and then it had bubbled and spilled and formed giant, wobbling tumours up and down the leg.

No one said a word. There didn’t seem to be anything to say. Eventually Mother turned and led the way out. He followed, throat tight.

They Apparated back to Grimmauld Place. The house elves had been busy: the house was tidy again. It was like nothing had happened. Unable to work the buttons on his robe, Regulus fell into bed fully-clothed.


	4. The Cave (4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New week, new set of warnings. More awful parent/child relationships, self-sacrifice bordering on suicide, blood, self-harm as a way to open doors, zombies, body horror, and drug-induced self-hatred.

Sunday he slept almost till noon, but was woken by his mother screaming.

Regulus scrambled down the stairs, belting on a robe as he did so, to find Grandfather Arcturus standing in the entryway. He was a tall man with long white hair pulled back in a braid. As always, he looked stern but reasonable.

Walburga was shrieking. “I can’t _leave_! You can’t make me!”

“I can,” Grandfather Arcturus said, not yelling but without any give in his voice. “I am Duke of Exeter and you are both a wife and a daughter in the house of Black. You are my responsibility, and never more so than when your husband lies in _my_ household.”

She broke down completely at that, and Regulus could only follow a few of her words. “I didn’t—my husband— _tearing me away—_ traitor—”

At that, Grandfather Arcturus’s temper snapped. “ _Silencio!_ ” he said, drawing his wand faster than Regulus thought possible. “You will come to Teignbridge Manor and tend your husband, and that will be the end of it.” He grabbed her wrist and for once, Walburga did not protest.

Regulus stepped down one stair, just enough to draw the eye. “My father-?”

“Is stable,” Grandfather Arcturus said, almost kind, “and has been released home, but he will need round the clock care for the foreseeable future.”

Home must be Teignbridge, which _was_ home to Grandfather Arcturus, being the seat of the Black family for as long as there had been one. “But why not here?”

“The charms on this house are bound to him,” said Grandfather Arcturus tightly, pulling Regulus’s mother towards the door. “They will draw from his magic if he’s here, and he is too weak for that.”

Regulus felt dizzy and had to sit down on the stairs. “That bad?” he whispered.

Grandfather Arcturus looked very serious. “I don’t know who tipped the Aurors off. Until I do, remain here. I’ll be in contact if your father’s condition worsens.” He walked out the door, Regulus’s mother following unwillingly. A moment later there was a crack of Apparition.

Regulus sat on the stairs for a while. His mother was gone. He had just been told to remain where he was—in other words, no one would expect him anywhere for a day or two. He could go—flee his home—steal the Horcrux—

His thoughts came to a halt. The Dark Lord hadn’t intended for Kreacher to survive, and he wouldn’t have if Regulus hadn’t left an order to return. So then, surely, Regulus himself was unlikely to survive.

He swallowed and stared at his hands. He didn’t _want_ to die, not really. A Horcrux was a very, unquestionably evil object and needed to be destroyed, but he wasn’t sure about his death coming with it. The Dark Lord…

Would keep killing, Regulus realized sickly. He had tried to kill Kreacher, he had murdered countless—not just those who opposed him and whose deaths had been called for, but Regulus had seen him kill Death Eaters for failure. And all the time, he was planning to make himself immortal—but nothing else, that Regulus had seen. There was no talk of plans for after the war and little on how to reform the Ministry beyond a strident call that it _be_ reformed.

No, Regulus thought, the Dark Lord had to die, and soon. There were too many atrocities coming for too little purpose. How much of what the Dark Lord said had to be lies?

And if Regulus’s death could make it happen, well… Sometimes sacrifices had to be made. Besides, who else could do it? He couldn’t send Kreacher; that was not Kreacher’s role. And he didn’t know about telling anyone else—what if he chose poorly?

It felt like forever had passed, but when he went back to his room, his clock said it was only half past noon. He had decided to wait until dark—perhaps midnight would be even better—so that wherever this cave was, there would be no possible bystanders. That gave him plenty of time to pour through the library again and try to find hints at what the defences could be.

* * *

“Kreacher,” Regulus said just before midnight, standing in the entryway.

The house elf appeared, muttering things under his breath until he looked up at Regulus. “What is Master Regulus wanting?”

“Take me to the same cave the Dark Lord took you to.”

Kreacher looked much more awake and went very pale. “Master Regulus cannot mean that, Master Regulus means _another_ cave—”

“I meant what I said, Kreacher,” he said, a little annoyed at the house elf’s delaying. The sooner they reached the cave, the sooner would be over.

The elf shook his head back and forth, making his ears swing. “But Master Regulus will get _hurt_!”

He didn’t really have an answer for that one, not when the note in his pocket said he knew he would die. “I order you to take me.”

Kreacher wailed, ears drooping, but he grabbed Regulus’s hand regardless. With a snap of his fingers, they vanished.

They appeared somewhere in the middle of pouring rain. Between the wet and the dark, he couldn’t see beyond the slick black rock they were standing on. He shook water out of his eyes, drawing his wand. “ _Lumos!_ ”

The light showed a narrow but choppy stretch of sea, a little wider than a city street, and then a sheer cliff that towered out of sight. A few feet above the water was the dark opening of a cave. They would need to swim; the spellwork didn’t allow Kreacher to get any closer.

Regulus was shivering already. Shoving his wand back in his pocket, he jumped off the rock. The freezing water made him yelp as he briefly went under, but he struck out and got his head above water to gasp a breath of even colder air. His robes hung like lead around him.

A moment later there was a shriek as Kreacher hit the water. Regulus couldn’t see him in the dark, but tried to swim towards the sound of splashing.

“We goes—this way—Master Regulus!” Kreacher yelled.

There was a bright flash of light that formed into a golden line stretching between them and the cliff. Regulus swam towards it, struggling against the cold and the sodden weight of his robes. By the time he made it to the cliff face, he was shivering too hard to speak.

The cold made it hard to find handholds on the cliff and the water didn’t help either, not when the waves were coming in hard and fast. He was thrown completely off at one point and went under the waves only to have his foot brush something in the water and send him rushing upward, sputtering water and gasping with fear. Eventually he managed it, though, and got both hands and feet set on the rock. It wasn’t easy at that point to climb up to the cave opening, but it was possible.

Kreacher had already made it up and dispelled the golden light at the sight of him. Wordlessly, they walked into the cave. The passage was tall and narrow, and the floor, walls, and ceiling were all covered in a layer of seaweed. He supposed it must be low tide and that the passage would flood when the tide came in.

As they walked down the passage, Regulus brushed his fingers against the slimy walls. They resonated with magic, some form of natural enchantment that protected these caves from Apparition and elf magics and no doubt other things. Without warning there was a flight of steps that led into a larger cave. He stood in the centre, still shivering, and looked around. “Kreacher, do you remember what he did here?”

Dripping wet, ears pressed flat against his head, Kreacher nodded shakily. “The Dark Lord cuts his finger and puts it here.” He reached up and touched a random point on the wall.

Of all the magical disciplines not taught at Hogwarts, blood magic was possibly the crudest, Regulus thought with disgust. There were plenty of ways to make entry difficult, but instead the Dark Lord had gone for the one that most wizards would find abhorrent instead.

Regulus drew his wand and quickly Banished the water from himself and from Kreacher before cutting his fingertip open. It welled with blood and he touched it to the rock before he could reconsider.

His skin crawled as the wall dissolved into air in front of him. Heart in his mouth, he stepped forward into the empty space.

Beyond the wall was another cavern dimly lit by a sickly green light radiating from the centre. “ _Lumos maxima_.” A bright ball of light flew out of his wand and hovered near the ceiling. It showed the full extent of the cavern: a wide, green-black lake with a small rocky island in the middle. There were no other exits.

“Master Regulus,” Kreacher said in a pitiful moan. “Kreacher remembers a boat.”

Regulus looked where the elf was pointing and saw a small wooden dinghy resting on the shore. For all that he had seen the Black Lake every day through the common room windows, Regulus did not like large bodies of water, and liked them even less when they were eerily black and lapping against his feet. Kreacher had said there were Inferi here, hadn’t he?

Too late to turn back now. He clambered into the boat, knocking his knee against the seat, and gestured for Kreacher to join him. The house elf was chewing on his nails, eyes wide and scared, but sat in the bow of the boat, arms wrapped around trembling knees.

Regulus tapped his wand against the boat. It jerked off the shore and Regulus hunkered down as it moved across the lake. He gripped his seat tightly, pressing his fingers into the rough wood, focusing on that rather than the dark, deep water around him. From time to time, something would splash, although he could never see it doing so, and he hoped it was only fish. Inferi were bad enough silent and still.

When the boat bumped against the island, he jumped in shock, making it tilt sharply. Careful not to disturb the lake, he climbed out of the boat, followed by Kreacher. Only once he was safely on solid ground did he let himself look down into the lake.

There was no gentle slope into the water: the white stone of the island ended sharply, and then a foot below there was black fathomless water. The island had used to be larger, for there were scattered stones in the water, a few just breaking the surface. The boat had pulled itself up on the flattest stretch, and even then was left resting at an angle.

As he looked at the water, something white and sleek moved in it, too little like a fish. It swam down, out of his sight, but then came back, and he could see the long, pale fingers of a human hand.

He jerked back, and knocked loose a rock that fell into the water.

The thing—body— _Inferius_ leaped at him. All he could see for a moment was white flesh and the bright light he had put on the ceiling. Then it hit him and knocked him down and he fell heavily, his elbows hitting the stone. It crouched on his chest, clawing at his robes, turning its head side to side so he could see the way one cheek dangled loose and the rows of sharpened teeth inside its jaw.

“ _Ignis!_ ” Regulus shouted, trying to bring his wand up. Fire exploded between them, throwing the Inferius back. It scrabbled back onto the island, though, and stared at him through the flames, clacking its teeth together repeatedly.

Regulus shoved himself upright and pushed the fire towards the Inferius. It made a rattling noise through a torn throat, and threw itself back in the lake. He dismissed the flames.

Nausea choked him, and he had to remain sitting for a minute. The Inferiius had almost killed him, its hands had been tearing through his robes, there was a scratch on his chest, and he couldn’t accept that he had come so close to success, only to almost be killed by a _corpse_.

“Master Regulus,” Kreacher said lowly. He was wringing his hands and swaying back and forth. “Master Regulus, it is over here but Kreacher…” He didn’t seem able to articulate what was upsetting him.

Regulus couldn’t blame him. The cave was creepy, the Inferius left his legs weak, but the worst thing was that pedestal. It was in the center of the island: a waist-high black stone with a basin full of glowing green potion on it. It had to be the Potion of Despair, which would bring up all his worst memories—much like a dementor, only with no hope of release. Wouldn’t that be fun.

Regulus took a simple gold locket out of one pocket and a piece of parchment out of the other. He had written half a dozen different notes while waiting for night, but had finally settled on one and signed it _R.A.B._ If someone other than the Dark Lord found it, he doubted they would be able to follow the note back to his family.

He folded the parchment and put it inside the locket, then handed that to Kreacher. “I’m going to drink this,” he said flatly. “If I can’t, if I want to stop, you must make me, Kreacher, you understand? Make me drink the potion. And when I’m done, switch this locket with the one in the basin. And then go straight home and destroy it. You must destroy it, Kreacher, you _must_.” The house elf’s head was bobbing up and down frantically but Regulus continued. “And you can’t tell Mother, I don’t care if she’s your Mistress or not, she’s never to know about this, understand me? Don’t tell Mother. Take the locket and go home and destroy it. That’s all.”

Regulus was shaking, body sluggish with fear, but he managed to turn away from his elf and pick up the crystal goblet that sat on the pedestal.

The potion was so thick he had to tilt the goblet nearly vertical to get it to slide, greasily, into his mouth. It tasted strongly of almonds and clung to his teeth and tongue. He forced it down, even though he wanted to gag. Once it _was_ down, it sat heavily in his stomach, only it was also moving around and he could feel it forcing its way into the rest of his body.

Quickly, before he could rethink this, he filled the goblet a second time and drained it.

He was abruptly nauseous and sweating, flashing hot and cold all at once. It was getting hard to think; he only knew that drinking the potion was important, so he drank a third goblet.

There was something he had to remember, there was something important about what he was feeling, only he couldn’t put a finger on it because his stomach had cramped violently, and he couldn’t do anything but bend over the pedestal and try not to sob.

Somehow, he drank a fourth goblet.

It was all his fault, he knew that, he knew it was all his fault his father was dying in St Mungo’s, because he had frozen, and that was because he was weak willed and spineless, he was incompetent and not worthy of his parents, and he had frozen, and then his father was in pain and then he was dying in St Mungo’s and it was all his fault—

“Master Regulus must drink!”

He had taken such pleasure in the fire and he shouldn’t have done that, he was a nasty, rotten child to focus on that instead of his father, he should have stopped and gone straight to St Mungo’s, he should have never dropped his guard at all because it was all his fault his father was dying, he was a failure of a Black, a useless waste of space, half the wizard his brother was and he couldn’t even stop admiring his brother who was no longer his brother because he was disinherited but he would always love Sirius only Sirius probably hated him—

“Kreacher is sorry but Master Regulus _must_!”

Words came out of his mouth and liquid went into it, which he didn’t deserve, he deserved to die in pain, just like his father was, because it was all his fault and surely his family hated him, his mother did and she should because he had let his father get cursed and he should have stopped it and it was just that he was in pain and there was liquid in his mouth and his nose and his lungs and this was the punishment for letting his father get cursed when it was all his fault and for making his mother upset and he should never ever make her upset because his mother was good and had raised him when she only needed one son but she only had one son because Sirius was gone and Sirius had to hate him for what he had said when Sirius was leaving and also for letting his father get cursed because it was all his fault—

Somewhere in the distance there was a clink of metal, and then there was nothing.


	5. The Cave (5)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I am so sorry for leaving you on that cliffhanger for an extra day; I went skiing yesterday and got back late and just completely forgot to post. Oops!
> 
> Thanks as always to sabreprincess/elizabethdove (same person, I just keep forgetting to give her AO3 handle) and thenoacat for betaing and generally putting up with me.
> 
> This week’s warnings: the consequences (physical and mental) of nearly poisoning yourself, and a very blasé approach to motherhood.

Kreacher watched in horror as Master Regulus babbled and screamed and finally collapsed against the pedestal. He checked the basin. It was empty.

He had his orders and they wrapped around him like a jacket, but he still took a moment to wave a hand over Master Regulus’s face and check for breath. With a sigh of relief, he took the fake locket and dropped it in the basin before picking the real one up. It was heavier than it should be by appearance, and crawling with twisted, _evil_ magic. He eyed it distastefully and regretfully hung it around his neck.

Then he turned to his next problem: He was bound not to abandon a member of the Black family, yet at the same time Master Regulus had… Not quite said as much, he realized, relieved.

Master Regulus had told him to go straight home. Perhaps Master Regulus had thought Kreacher hadn’t noticed how longingly Master Regulus reached for death. Perhaps Master Regulus thought Kreacher would obey orders without thinking.

It was hard to lift Master Regulus and drag him to the boat without access to his own magic but Kreacher had always been stronger than he looked. The cave walls shuddered with their own power, leaving Kreacher to pull Master Regulus over the rocks and try not to let his head bang against them.

Finally he got Master Regulus into the boat. Master Regulus was breathing hard now, but his eyes were closed. The potion, Kreacher thought darkly, and tapped the side of the boat to make it go. It was good that enchanted objects did not need magic to work, only knowledge of what to do.

The boat glided across the lake while Kreacher sat shivering in the centre of the boat, watching Master Regulus’s chest rise and fall heavily. The boat reached the shore without incident, only then he had to haul Master Regulus out of it again. Master Regulus’s foot fell in the lake, making the water bubble.

Kreacher yanked him backwards. Master Regulus was slammed against the rocks, but that mattered less so long as the dead bodies did not drag him into the lake.

He grabbed Master Regulus’s arm and the back of his robes and pulled him down the steps to the sea water, where Kreacher froze, uncertain. Elf magic did not work in this cave, so there would be no popping or lightening. Carefully, he turned Master Regulus onto his back and slid him feet-first into the water. To Kreacher’s relief, Master Regulus floated there, swaying side to side as he breathed.

Kreacher stepped into the water and began pulling Master Regulus behind him. The water got deeper as they went, until Kreacher was swimming and their progress slowed, but the moment they exited the cave into the ocean, Kreacher was able to grab Master Regulus and pop away.

  


On the first of September, nineteen seventy-nine, Countess Narcissa Malfoy decided it was time to have a child. This was less because of the Hogwarts Express and more because her husband needed a reason to stop placing himself in danger.

She wanted a child, of course, but during the war it didn’t seem prudent to bring a child into the world who would only inevitably end up sacrificed to the self-proclaimed lord her husband had sworn himself to. It was still the war—the war that seemed inclined to continue on forever, quite frankly—but she had to balance the safety of a future child against the safety of her current husband. Lucius was a good husband for her, certainly as good as any noble wizard in Britain, but he was more than a little reckless and eager to prove himself when—as Narcissa had pointed out to him before—he was already Count of Aumale and would inherit the Earldom of Chester on his father’s death, not a poor title at all.

Thus decided, Narcissa left her light lunch to Floo friends and share this development with them. It mattered not that she hadn’t conceived yet, and mattered even less that she hadn’t told Lucius. What mattered was establishing now, before any further developments could come to pass, that Countess Narcissa Malfoy née Black was expecting.

Before she could reach a fireplace, however, an owl flew in from the kitchen and landed on the table. She eyed it. The owl was a neat grey type—she had never been one much for birds—and quite common.

The owl looked back at her and stuck out the leg with the letter attached.

Somewhat resigned, she took the letter, checked it for hexes, and opened it.

_Dear Cissy,_

_Do not fret about me, for all that I took deathly ill with something uncertain these past two months, as I am perfectly healthy now. I have been unable to ascertain what caused it, whether commonplace illness or something more vile. The illness was so severe and, I am afraid, so contagious that I could not risk the health of my beloved family._

_My dearest mother, much as she may have wished to come aid me in my sickness, was bound by her duties to my father at Teignbridge. These have left her with increasing need of our family’s elves. As a coincidental result, I am now severely understaffed, for I am taking on more of my noble father’s duties, but I have no wish to incur my mother’s wrath by interfering with her care. Could you see your way to a loan from your husband’s house? I would be in your debt._

_I am, personally, very sorry for the tangled webs involving us, our family, and our mutual friends. I hope to meet with you in private at your earliest convenience so that I may snip some threads._

_Yours fondly,_

_Reg_

She stared at the letter, and then at the owl. Her first thought was an unladylike _Oh, Reg_ , but she was able to collect herself and move to her sitting room with her writing supplies.

Narcissa made a copy of the letter and set the original aside, before picking up a quill and setting to marking up the copy. By Black standards, the letter was hardly encoded at all— _Oh, Reg—_ but she had found it handy to leave a record of her initial thoughts for later review.

The first thing to be noted was the greeting. The Black cousins all had pet names, but Regulus was consistent about which he used when. Narcissa was for public use, Cissy only for in private with the family. But he _knew_ that owl post was often read so this was remarkably heavy handed from him if he wanted to emphasize their familial connections.

 _Do not fret about me_. “Oh, _Reg_ ,” Narcissa finally said out loud. Typical young man, though: So eager to head off fretting that he incurred it through concern over what he was not mentioning. Not only that, but he had been unable to identify the cause of his malady. Regulus may not be a Healer, but he was a fair potioneer and should know more than enough to recognize his own symptoms.

Of course, the root of the problem, was that Regulus was almost certainly not sick at all. If Regulus had just come down sick, Aunt Walburga would have called a Healer or ten and had done with it. No, Narcissa had no doubt that her cousin had been poisoned. The list of potential culprits was unfortunately long; hopefully after talking with her Regulus would see his way to providing her with more information about this poisoning.

 _My dearest mother_ was the first clause Narcissa had trouble with. Anyone with sense could see that Aunt Walburga should not have been given custody of a Flobberworm, let alone two talented boys. While Regulus was still throwing off the effects of her conditioning—something that would be easier if Narcissa could get him to move out of Grimmauld Place—it had been years since he had thought of his mother as _dearest_. So what was he really saying?

 _Was bound by_ _her duties to my father at Teignbridge_ was...interesting. Narcissa knew Walburga had been at Teignbridge Manor for the past six weeks, perhaps longer—but surely Reg knew that she knew? Why was he telling her this? How long had he been sick for?

The sentences about elves seemed, on the surface, quite transparent, which made Narcissa uneasy. Reg might be taking over as Earl of Huntingdon, but the position was ceremonial—and if he was referring to Uncle Orion’s role of head of his family, well, that family was now down to Regulus and his mother. So what need did Regulus have of a new elf? She hoped this was a sign of independence on his part, but couldn’t quite bring herself to believe it.

And then a sentence indicating—oh, _Reg—_ that whatever was happening was connected with the Death Eaters, ‘our mutual friends’, and that his position with regards to them was not quite so clear cut as had been believed. Narcissa drummed her fingers. Quite bluntly, this was not good.

He wrapped up with a request to see her at her earliest convenience _—_ she hoped he was prepared for her _today_ _—_ and a normal Regulus closing, his usual mix of formality and familiarity.

She folded the original and filed it in a cabinet that would only open to her; then put the copy in her pocket and went to find different robes.

* * *

 

The house elf Beist met her at the door of Grimmauld Place. “Greetings, Missy Black-Malfoy, Master Regulus is in the little parlor.”

Narcissa nodded. House elves had problems referring to children of their families as anything other than the name they had used growing up--she was impressed that Beist had remembered she was a Malfoy at all. “And how is he today?”

Beist pulled on her ears and bit her lip. “Beist isn’t supposed to say, Missy Black. Master Regulus…” She shook her head quickly. “Beist isn’t supposed to say.”

She smiled and let it drop. Whatever Regulus was up to, she would have more luck getting it out of him than his elf.

When she entered the little parlor, Reg was sitting in his mother’s corner chair and didn’t rise to greet her. “My legs,” he said quietly and shrugged. His hands were shaking in his lap.

“Reg…” She sat in the closest chair and folded her hands, frowning at her cousin. “You said you were perfectly healthy.”

He sighed and tried to use one hand to still the other. “Must we start with the chiding?”

Narcissa considered herself an even-tempered woman but to see her cousin shaking and pale, skinnier than ever and with shadows all over his face, that left her quietly cold. “What happened after the party?”

She watched him strain to remember that far back, and couldn’t help but feel sick at the next words out of his mouth. “You were at the party?”

No longer could she hold it against him for calling Bella to help and not her. Something had been on Regulus’s mind that night _—_ he’d barely noticed to greet her at the door _—_ and now that she saw him again he looked...shattered. As if someone had dropped a glass and then tried to repair it, with only minimal success. “I was,” she said quietly.

“Oh.” He was silent, then, but his mouth worked, trying to produce words but somehow unable to. “How—how is my father?”

She went completely still, searching his face for an explanation. “Reg...where have you been?”

He genuinely frowned at that, fingers picking at his robes. “Sick. I thought I said. In the letter.”

“Your father is at the manor, dying of an Auror’s curse. An Auror who you killed with Fiendfyre.” She took no pains to soften the words. Had he _forgotten_?

Regulus smiled thinly. “I remember _that_ , thank you. But that was...” He trailed off, eyes going unfocused. “July. It is not July.” His gaze abruptly focused on her again. “You mean to say that my father has been sick all this time?” he asked, words coming out in a jumbled rush.

She was sitting frozen, unable to move past his incoherent, half-thought admission. “As have _you._ Why did you not _write_?”

He gave a small, hopeless shrug. “I could not—and could not give Kre-Beist directions to. Besides she was with my mother. Mostly.” His eyes were flickering frantically, side to side, as if trapped.

“Which would be why you wish to borrow a house elf,” she said calmly. He was lying, pathetically obvious, and she wanted to know why. “What happened to Kreacher?”

He seemed more solid at that, as if she had brought the conversation back to where he had thought it would go. So be it. “The Dark Lord needed him for a task, and he did not return.”

Narcissa watched Regulus closely. The matter of the Dark Lord, and his blasé treatment of anyone other than himself, could wait. “What really happened to Kreacher?”

Without appearing to realize it, Regulus had shoved up his sleeve and was scratching at the Dark Mark. “Doesn’t matter.”

“He isn’t dead, is he,” she said softly, wondering what his reaction would be.

He jerked forward, face going white. “D-d-d-don’t! Say that!” Breathing hard, he shoved himself back into the chair, pulling his knees up to his chest. “C-c-can’t. Tell you. Can’t.”

She felt the blood drain from her face. Regulus had always been a little nervy—or a lot, depending on where Sirius was—but nothing quite so extreme as this. “Reg… Who did this to you?”

His hands were shaking more than ever. “My own fault, Cissy. I, Sluggy knows the antidote but I, I couldn’t write to him and the elf couldn’t either. So I’ve just, I’ve had to wait it out.”

“Someone poisoned you,” she whispered venomously. The Blacks may fight and squabble amongst themselves, but let harm come to one of their own and you would find that they could present a united face to the rest of the world. “Tell me-”

“No,” Regulus said, his voice stronger than it had ever been. “I won’t put you in danger.”

It wasn’t hard at that point, to figure out who had access to Regulus and who could inspire that sort of fear in him. She had, after all, hexed Bella’s hair into knots half a dozen times; Regulus should know as well as anyone how little people scared her. “Oh, _Reg_.”

She couldn’t ask because the words choked in her throat at that point, because even safe within Grimmauld Place she couldn’t risk him hearing: _was it personal, did you deserve it, why aren’t you dead_.

She wanted to say she would take on the Dark Lord for him the same way she had always taken on his brother and her sister. Those words were stuck in her too, and she could only stare at him.

“So.” He shrugged again. “I am recovering,” he said plaintively.

If this was recovery, Narcissa wasn’t sure she wanted to know what he’d looked like before. “With help.”

Regulus gave another of those twisted, tight smiles. “Faster with help,” he corrected.

“Because Kreacher died on a task for the Dark Lord,” she said.

He nodded, head jerking. “Yes.”

It was a good thing Abraxas Malfoy had wanted her trained in Occlumency before she could marry his son. She knew she couldn’t stand up against the full force of the Dark Lord but she could defend her mind well enough to fool him into not needing to use it.

All else being equal, however, she did think Malfoy Manor had a few extra elves and could stand the loss of one to her cousin. “I have one I could contract to you permanently.”

Regulus leaned forward in his chair. “Permanently?” His eyes narrowed. “What. Would you want?”

She folded her hands in her lap—very classic witch-about-to-get-exactly-what-she-wants. “A solid excuse to keep the family’s attention away from you and away from Grimmauld Place.” Or rather, that was what Regulus wanted, in addition to the elf, and he had always been her favourite relative. “Luckily for you, I have that already.”

He grinned—or tried to, for it came out rather shaky. “And what—what hat do I contribute to this arrangement again?”

She was doing him a favour, honestly, but it wasn’t like she could _say_ that, or he’d wonder if she was the one who had been poisoned. “You’re not protesting when I announce my pregnancy and redirect every living female in the Black family from trying to pair you off to doting on me for nine months.”

“Ah,” he said, eyes alight, “lovely. Does, does Lucius know?”

Narcissa gave him a slight smile in return. “All I want from this is for my cousin to recover and-”

“For me to stay. Out. Of your way while you scheme.” He looked brighter and more confident than he had at any point during the conversation.

“The elf in question is named Dobby,” Narcissa said. “He’s young and still in training, and he isn’t settling in well with the others. Everything else aside, I honestly think he will be better with you.”

Regulus tilted his head, still breathing hard but otherwise calm. “I’ll owe you one, S-Cissy.”

She shook her head gently. “It’s all within the family. Let me call Dobby and we can transfer the contract.”

He gave her a look that she knew meant he was still going to consider himself in her debt—fine, as long as he didn’t get obsessive about it—and waved a hand at her. “Please.”

“Dobby!”

The elf appeared and she eyed him critically. He had a bruise on his forehead from a punishment the night before, but nothing too bad—hopefully nothing Regulus would take issue with.

Regulus also gave the elf a once-over. “Dobby, do—do you punish, yourself. Often?”

The elf turned wide eyes on her. She sighed. “Answer him, Dobby.”

“Ye-es, yes,” the elf said, head bobbing up and down. “Dobby punishes himself many times a day, Dobby is a _bad_ elf to need so many punishments.”

Regulus frowned at Narcissa. Well, he always had been soft with elves. “I n-need a new personal elf,” he said to the room at large. “This elf will be, expected, to serve me and to-to-to represent me in making appointments. P-punishments must be nonviolent. Is this understood?”

The elf nodded several times in quick succession. “Is Dobby to be transferred? Dobby is a bad elf for asking but Dobby thinks--”

Narcissa gave Regulus a look to say _see what I have to deal with_.

Regulus ignored her. “Yes. I’m, I’m cousin to your Mistress and she’s a-a-agreed to transfer you to me.”

Dobby looked back at her. Narcissa tried not to eye him with revulsion, but she didn’t like the elf and they both knew it. For someone used to Black family elves’ particular mix of subservience and stubborn independence, the sycophantic behaviour of the Malfoy elves was grating.

“I have so agreed, Dobby,” she said. Perhaps Regulus would get him to do something useful, in between his own plans involving the Dark Lord. Merlin knew, the elf had a miraculous ability to get on her every last nerve.

“Then let us act, and have it be done,” Regulus said, drawing his wand. His hand shook. “Cissy?”

The first part in the ceremony was hers. Narcissa drew her wand. “Dobby, as lady of the House of Malfoy, I do release you from your contract with the Malfoy family through this gift of a tunic.” She conjured a clean off-white tunic with the Black family crest on the shoulder.

Dobby took it, trembling. He turned to Regulus.

Her cousin was shaking almost as badly as the elf was, but he still raised his wand. Visibly drawing strength from the ritual, he said in a firm voice, “Dobby, as head of my own household in the place of my father, and as grandson to the Duke of Exeter, I do bind you to myself, Regulus Arcturus Black, with the use of these enchantments. You are to serve, protect, obey, and cherish me and mine. You are to be prompt, orderly, tidy, and presentable. You are to consider yourself a valued possession of my house, and you are to remember that your ancestors came from this land and your service is a mark of honour to both our ancestors. Do them proud.”

As he was speaking, magic streamed from his wand to the tunic Narcissa was levitating. She could guess what he was doing to it—protective enchantments, most likely, and some for durability and cleanliness—and he did it silently and smoothly.

Finished, Regulus dropped his wand and leaned back in his chair.

Dobby stared at him with round eyes but managed to put the tunic on. Beneath it, his old pillowcase—a mark of his disfavour in the Malfoy house—vanished. It was done.

“Reg—stay in contact.” Her cousin looked like he was about to lose consciousness and she intended to make her exit as quickly as possible.

He twitched his fingers at her. “Letters, yes. I’ll, I’ll see you at Father’s bedside, no d-doubt.” A pause. “That is, if I sur-sur-survive my meeting with himself.”

She couldn’t conceal the way her face drained of colour, but fortunately Regulus was staring at the ceiling and couldn’t see how badly that threw her. “Your position is that precarious?”

There was a long silence. Finally, Regulus said, “Yes. He does, doesn’t know it yet, and ho-hopefully I can keep it from him.”

Narcissa took this to mean that whatever Regulus had done had not yet been discovered by the Dark Lord; if he could keep the Dark Lord from learning about it, he would be fine. Otherwise…

She sighed. “Rest, please. You’ll need it.”

“If you’re turning into our grandmother, you, you may as well leave,” he told the ceiling.

Narcissa gave him an unseen smile, cast a Warming Charm on the chair he was sitting in, and left Grimmauld Place. It was time to talk to Lucius about children.


	6. The Spy (1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Delayed again thanks to a weird work schedule. Here’s the start of the second arc, in which Regulus discovers that living might actually be harder than dying.
> 
> Thanks, as always, to noaacat and sabreprincess for edits, even if they did turn this chapter from just under 5k to just over 6k.
> 
> Warnings: Vomiting, new and shiny PTSD, bad planning, a brief return of suicidal ideation, experimental potions, torture disguised as punishment disguised as Appropriate Management Techniques, wizarding-style racism, plain old-fashioned classism.

 

For the rest of his life, he hated caves. They were too dark and too damp, and too prone to making him think of death and decay.

He could not remember much of that night, only flashes of thirst and pain, pieces of fear and knowledge that filtered into his mind at the worst possible moment, leaving him trembling and sick.

He remembered Kreacher refusing to leave without him. He remembered a tiny scabby-knuckled hand grabbing his.

He could not remember Apparating, though he was sure it had to have happened.

He could not remember the weeks of being unconscious afterward, though the calendar agreed with Kreacher on how long he had spent abed.

He remembered, in unpleasant detail, being ferociously sick for two weeks straight, remembered the array of treatments Kreacher tried, remembered vomiting onto one of Mother’s priceless antique rugs, remembered being so weak he could not raise a hand to eat so that Kreacher had to feed him.

Remembered, as his Patronus memory for years, the moment when he knew he was going to live, when he was able to keep a piece of bread down and drink an entire glass of water.

During the whole process, he saw nothing of his mother. It took until day ten, or thereabouts, for him to remember why. He couldn’t decide after that whether to be glad she was gone or worried that his father, too, was still sick.

Then he had to vomit again and his thoughts were redirected.

* * *

He had a lot of time to himself, a month of it spent too weak to hold a book, and his thoughts mostly circled around the same overwhelming reality: In a dented jewelry box, under his bed, was a sliver of the Dark Lord’s soul.

The books he had read hadn’t contained any specifics on how to destroy Horcruxes, just a lot of vague comments on the apparently-nonexistent immortality of the soul—another detail that disagreed with his religious knowledge—Kreacher’s attempt to stab it with a knife had gotten nowhere. Regulus would have to hit it with a curse of some sort, but he wasn’t strong enough for that.

Beyond the Horcrux, although it was awfully hard to think past that, he needed to decide what he was now. He couldn’t claim to be a loyal Death Eater, but nor was he a member of Dumbledore’s resistance group or a Ministry employee or an innocent bystander, and there didn’t seem to be any other options in this war.

Perhaps instead he should defect; abandon Britain to its fate and leave for parts unknown. That set him on a delightful daydream involving destroying the Horcrux and moving to Italy, which was warm and a long way from London, or perhaps the Antipodes. Surely New Holland was no longer quite so full of convicts and also even further from London.

It took him another day to come to the depressing conclusion that the Dark Lord would probably still follow a deserting Death Eater to the Antipodes. There had been someone who tried to desert shortly after Regulus joined, although he couldn’t remember the poor sod’s name, only the tone of his screams. And how very long they went on.

No, simply deserting wasn’t going to accomplish what he wanted. It would only end in his death, and though that had seemed an acceptable risk before he went to the cave, it seemed much less reasonable now, when he had just finished struggling to live.

Only what was the alternative? Continue serving the Dark Lord and hope to not get discovered as a traitor, hoping that someone else ended the war so he could return to a normal life?

The next day, he decided, while vomiting into a silver basin, that he had no idea what his normal life would even look like. Even if the war ended tomorrow, even if the Dark Lord vanished and the Death Eaters left him alone, there would still be his mother. He would still be another aimless noble, waiting for his relatives to die and leave him with money and power, marrying some suitable bride chosen by his mother, and producing offspring that would eventually go off to Hogwarts and provide him with opportunities to yell and write menacing letters to the Headmaster.

At least with the Dark Lord, he had felt like he was _accomplishing_ something. In a sort of disastrous way, he realized now, and to the detriment of all, but still, he had been doing _something_. In the Order, surely there was something to do, filled as it might be with Mudbloods and blood traitors.

Ugh. The problem was, he didn’t agree with the Dark Lord’s methods, but he hardly agreed any more with the Order’s principles. Surely there was a way he could do both at once—or, more fantastically, set up his own, opposing camp.

Somehow. Without ending up flayed in some back alley.

He spent the next day curled up, facing the wall, wishing he hadn’t made it out of the cave.

Eventually he came to some conclusions, aided by the lack of anything to do but think. First, he could not trust anyone. Not the Dark Lord, not his mother, not the Headmaster. No one could know what he had under his bed, or where his loyalties were. Second, for as long as possible, he had to convince the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters that nothing had happened, that there had been no change in his convictions. And third, the hardest, the one that still made him uneasy to think about: He had to make preparations for any way this war ended.

That meant reaching out to the Order of the Phoenix, or to the Ministry, or both, and somehow convincing them that he would be of value after the war. He was confident of his position if the Dark Lord won, but he didn’t _want_ the Dark Lord to win, which would mean defecting somehow, but if he did so openly, it would be worse than just deserting.

So he had to become a double agent, or enough of one, at least, to convince the leadership on both sides that he was loyal and _indispensable_ , so that when the war did end they would stand by him afterward.

When he first had that thought, he immediately wondered what his mother would think, and then laughed until he couldn’t breathe. She would disown him for it in an instant, if she had any other sons, and the _yelling—_

It was for the best that she would never find out, he thought soberly. Her reaction to that would trump everything but the day Sirius had left.

Everything would have to be secret. Everything.

His first thought, he decided, from now until the end of the war, would have to be for survival. Not for family, or for honour, or for blood. He would not only have to convince the Dark Lord that he had only been sick—or poisoned, perhaps—but also reach out to the opposition, maybe the Ministry, or the Headmaster’s little rebel group, and somehow persuade them that he was a traitor to his friends.

He groaned. After the war could be a problem for later. For now, he needed to survive and make sure he wasn’t executed the moment he returned to the Death Eaters.

* * *

It didn’t take long after that for him to be able to sit up and answer owls, but by then he had been absent from the world for close to two months: three weeks spent mostly unconscious, two weeks of vomiting, and two weeks shaking and weak, but unquestionably recovering. His family was, of course, concerned about his absence, and most of his owls were from them. He responded to all of them with the same vague statement— _was_ _out of commission for a bit, back now, see you for Christmas—_ except for Cissy’s.

That one got more thought, not just because Lucius would have surely told her if the Dark Lord was looking for him, but because of Kreacher, who was, to the Dark Lord, dead. Beist was his parents’, and was usually with his mother unless he requested otherwise—and she _would_ want to know why if he did request her. A month or so without a house elf was one thing; let it go on for longer, though, and people would ask questions. Some of those people would ask his mother, who would then want to know why he couldn’t use Kreacher—and there would be no explanation, including the truth, that would satisfy her. But he couldn’t use Kreacher, because if Kreacher appeared in anyone’s memories to the Dark Lord… No, he needed a replacement elf, but he needed one from someone he could trust to be discreet and not inform his mother, nor report to the Dark Lord.

Which in the end meant family. Narcissa was a few years older, but close enough that they had been childhood playmates, and fully aware of his position both within the family and with the Dark Lord.

His owl flew off an hour later and he, exhausted, went to bed.

The next day, a number of relieved replies came back, plus a cursed one from Bella that he lit on fire rather than open. Typical Bella, honestly. Barty wrote to say that there would be a meeting on the fifth and that his absence from the August meetings had been noted, which Regulus took to mean that the Dark Lord was asking after him and that he had better be well enough to attend.

Late in the evening, Kreacher popped in to inform him that Narcissa was at the door.

The following conversation went…better than he had any right to hope for. Cissy had still gone off knowing more than he had meant her to, but he should’ve expected that. And she hadn’t cursed him, or yelled at him, or been anything more than mildly disapproving at his life choices, which seemed fair enough given how much he disapproved of his own life choices.

The next step, unfortunately, was the Death Eater meeting on the fifth of September. He couldn’t very well refuse to go, he may as well walk in and tell the Dark Lord that he no longer wanted to serve him, but at the same time, his Occlumency would have to be perfect. Everything had to have an excuse and every excuse had to match: the elves, his absence, his mother, the trembling.

He ended up spending the last two days before the meeting in the cellar, trying to brew a potion that would minimize his shakes without blurring his mind. Regulus covered four sheets of parchment with tiny notes on ingredient interactions, finally deciding to try diluting Draught of Peace two to one with water during the third simmering period, plus half a dose of otherwise unmodified Wit Sharpening Potion. Given more time, he would have preferred to merge the two more smoothly to achieve the desired result of calm alertness and control over fine motor functions, as he was left with trembling hands and an overdeveloped reaction time. Still, a little tremble could be explained by exhaustion due to sickness. The full-body shakes he was still having could not.

The problem with potion brewing, he quickly discovered, was you couldn’t use magic on most ingredients without causing later problems for yourself. Ostensibly, he already knew this, but it was one thing to have it pounded into your head as the result of sharing a common room with Severus Snape, and quite another to have the cauldron blow up on you because you levitated the moonstone in. After cleaning himself up and getting Kreacher to clean up the room, he pondered the problem.

His hands simply weren’t stable enough for the more delicate and finicky steps, and while his levitation was just fine, it evidently reacted poorly with the powdered moonstone. There were no family members he could trust with this, Narcissa being a competent potions maker but unwilling to get further embroiled in his fiasco, and by this point he wouldn’t think of asking anyone outside the family. Either they were untrustworthy, or asking would put them in unforgivable danger, or both.

After a second failed attempt, damned by him spilling ground tortoiseshell all over everything, Regulus gave up and asked Kreacher to be his hands, house elf magic hopefully being different enough to not interfere.

To his surprise, it worked.

Even bottled, the draught gave off a light silver steam, which meant it had been perfectly brewed. It also smelled strongly of juniper, an ingredient not found in the potion. The decision was straightforward. If effective, that meant house elves could work on potions without disturbing them, an invaluable fact. If ineffective, well… Death by experimental potion ought to at least be less painful than death by Dark Lord.

It did not kill him instantly, which he took as a promising sign.

Apparating into Malfoy Manor didn’t kill him either, although it felt an awful lot like it would. Avery, clean-shaven for once, was waiting at the apparition point. Only a year older than Regulus, he looked particularly young with his cheeks bare, although revealing the hollows in his cheeks did him no favours.

“ _He_ wants to see you. Before the meeting.” Avery’s eyes flicked him up and down. Relaxing slightly, he said, “Look like shit, don’t you?”

Regulus nodded acknowledgement of the order and responded, “As much as you do.” He actually suspected he looked worse than Avery, but he wasn’t about to admit that to the other Death Eater.

Avery straightened up, pulling on the front of his robes. “Ah but see, _I_ have been following his orders.” He leaned in, radiating smugness. “Something that I’m sure will come up at the meeting.”

Regulus merely raised his eyebrows. “Are you insinuating I haven’t been?” he said quietly, and walked away.

Avery was intelligent enough not to respond to that. Death Eaters resolved squabbles in one of two ways: by fights, and by means of rank. Regulus wasn’t convinced he could take Avery in a fight, especially not now, but as long as he kept matters to words, it would be determined by rank. Regulus was a Baron and would one day be a Duke, while Avery was from a cadet branch of his family and would never hold a title.

Entering the manor’s open doors, he found a house elf, who squeakily informed him the Dark Lord was in the secondary dining room. The halls were deserted and portraits had been either removed or were empty landscape.

The doors to the dining room were closed, Lucius leaning against a column looking bored. “Good of you to show up, cousin.”

Regulus forced a smile, keeping his arms stiff so they wouldn’t shake. “Good of you to meet me.” He paused, deliberately. “Cousin.”

Lucius didn’t generally acknowledge the close relationship between his wife and Regulus—but then again, he also preferred to ignore that Bellatrix was his sister-in-law. Perhaps something had shifted in the web of Death Eater alliances. Something else to look forward to, then, if he survived his meeting with the Dark Lord.

 _Later_ , Lucius’ silence promised, as he jerked his head towards the doors.

He nodded shortly, pulled one door open, and stepped inside.

The room was dimly lit, enough to show a long table encircled by chairs, with the Dark Lord sitting in the furthest one. Regulus shoved back any trace of nausea, made sure his Occlumency was prepared, and walked towards him.

The Dark Lord stood before he was halfway down the table. “You have been absent without warning, Regulus. Surely now that you are through with your schooling, you have _more_ time for my tasks, not less?”

Regulus stopped instantly and bowed, hands resting on his thighs. The Dark Lord was looking for a reason to punish him—that much was clear—but the more obliging he could be, the more chance he had to keep hidden the thing that he could not think about.

“You could not even be bothered to send a _note_ , my servant?”

He did not dare make eye contact and kept his gaze fixed just to the right of the Dark Lord’s shoulder. “My lord, I fear I was poisoned. At first I thought taken ill, but the symptoms, my reaction—no, I am sure it was a poison.” A little bit of trembling in the voice, some more in the hands, keep his body hunched and low and make sure his jaw was almost slack.

The Dark Lord did not respond instantly. After a moment of terrifying silence, he said, “A strong enough poison to leave you unable to owl, but not deadly? An interesting choice for a poisoner.”

“I thought so too, my lord, when I was well enough to think again.” He gave a small, wry smile. Had he, perhaps, successfully redirected the conversation? He did not dare to hope. “For near on six weeks I was weaker than an infant, I could neither lift hand nor wand to give word to you. I survived through great good luck. My—” He hesitated for a moment, then pressed on. “My recovery would have no doubt been faster with a house elf present,” almost a dangerous touch of censure, he thought, so he sped up, “which is why I have acquired a new one.”

Raising his eyebrows, the Dark Lord sat back down. “Where did this elf come from?”

An invasive question, a rude one, for a pureblood but Regulus held his commentary. There were times and places when the Dark Lord was amicable to being taught pureblood culture and this was most definitely not one of them. “My cousin, Narcissa Malfoy.” Black first, Black always, he thought to himself.

The Dark Lord nodded. “Look at me, Regulus.”

He did. He could not do otherwise.

The Dark Lord’s eyes were red irises surrounded by bloodshot whites and Regulus met them steadily. Without word or action, the Dark Lord was in his mind, rummaging through it.

Regulus had learned Occulmency and Legilimency from Grandfather Arcturus, and knew what it felt like to have a true master of the art examine you. By contrast, the Dark Lord was heavy handed and brutal, leaving behind patches of phobia and nightmare. It wasn’t safe to think that, Regulus knew, so he shoved the thought away in the locked chest in the depths of his mind. Most of his thoughts looked like a library, a traditional layout for a young pureblood influenced by the wisdom of his elders. The chest, too, was traditional and used to hold dangerous or private information.

The Dark Lord went to this first, forcing it open and piecing through its contents. Regulus could not avoid flinching, for all he had been through this before. Protected spaces in your mind were meant to _stay_ as such, and not be torn open for all to see.

But he managed to remain standing until the Dark Lord withdrew, apparently satisfied. Only then did Regulus begin the work of cleaning up, tidying memories away. Only then did he allow himself to think of where the secrets were, in the lock of the chest.

Expressionless, the Dark Lord watched him. “You have done well, my servant, in returning to me as soon as you may.”

Regulus dropped his shoulders a fraction of an inch.

“I must still punish you for neglecting to inform me of your incapacity. Surely a wizard of your skill should have contacts who can keep your master informed.”

He swallowed rolling nausea. He’d known what he was in for in returning to the Dark Lord, but it didn’t make the prospect of punishment any easier to bear.

“ _Crucio_.” It was said calmly, lazily.

Regulus held onto that tone of voice. It promised a short punishment.

Pain hit at once, everywhere. Moving made it worse, but he was driven to move to avoid the pain, jerking away from its source and causing himself more damage in the doing. It blistered up and down his arms, searing scars into his mind, deep trenches of hurt and misery. Unable to think beyond avoiding it, caught up in the thought of such pain forever and ever, surely this was Hell and he was well paid for it, he cried out, a low wail torn from his throat.

It ended almost imperceptibly, leaving him with echoes and aftershocks. The body did not forget pain so well as all that, and it took him a moment for it to recede enough for him to notice where he was. He had fallen on his side, shoulder and hip pressing into the wood floor, a new dull pain radiating from his elbow.

Slowly, Regulus pulled himself to his feet, every inch of his skin on fire. “My lord,” he said, tongue thick in his mouth. He arranged his body, feet apart, hands behind his back, head slightly lowered.

“It would take too much time to catch you up on the events of the previous weeks,” the Dark Lord said in the same calm tone. “For the meeting tonight however…”

Regulus tried to force himself to pay attention but found his mind wandering regardless. Whoever the Dark Lord had been before his arrival at Hogwarts—and despite his mother’s memories, he did not know anything about the Dark Lord’s family—he knew very little about pureblood customs and relationships. He had chosen Regulus, no doubt because Regulus was young and therefore thought impressionable, to keep him informed on the things his parents had clearly not taught him, which left Regulus, recruited at sixteen, in a miraculously stable position. The hierarchy of the Death Eaters was always subject to change, but the Dark Lord would never replace him without killing him off, he simply didn’t trust Regulus—or anyone—to keep secrets without frequent oversight, and Regulus’s death would put the Black family into play again. His grandfather had spent the last thirty years as a moderate, and while his father was a conservative, he had never been fond of the Dark Lord’s approach.

At any rate, the position was interesting, in that he was able to use details of pureblood culture he memorized young but never expected to be relevant, and it kept him away from the worst of the war. It did mean he spent more time than healthy in the presence of the Dark Lord, but that was the sort of thought he kept locked away.

Fortunately, the sorts of questions the Dark Lord wanted answered—family allegiances, holiday traditions, the like—were the sorts of questions Regulus could answer while most of his mind was on more pressing things, like controlling Cruciatus tremors. And hoping that the potion he took continued to keep him upright.

Finally the Dark Lord wrapped up. Tonight was to be preparation for All Hallows’ Eve, which the Dark Lord insisted on treating as a revel. It irritated Regulus and many others from the oldest families, but there was little they could do about it. The Dark Lord wanted a raucous Muggle celebration, and so a raucous Muggle celebration he would have.

Keeping himself bland, Regulus was able to offer his advice and depart. The Dark Lord wanted his insights, not his presence. Lucius was still standing outside and scowled when he saw Regulus. “A short punishment, I hear.”

Regulus smiled sweetly, locking his knees to keep upright. “The Dark Lord values my mind.”

Lucius’s scowl deepened. “And I wonder what else does the Dark Lord value? Where were you these last two months? Some time off may be expected, but you missed Cissy’s birthday.”

The thing about Lucius’s twisty mind, Regulus thought, was that he left everyone else unsure exactly what he was after. Yes, Regulus had missed Narcissa’s birthday, but he had already met with Narcissa and Lucius knew this—so what point was he trying to make? Irritated and frazzled after his punishment, Regulus said icily, “Didn’t you hear about it from Cissy? We had a _most_ engaging conversation the other day.”

“So I heard,” Lucius said in the same tone. “Tell me, did she mention to you, by any chance, something about _children_?”

Regulus stifled his immediate reaction, which was to laugh at the speed Narcissa worked. “The subject might have come up.”

Lucius was trying to back him towards a wall but was stymied by Regulus’s general unsteadiness and insistence on keeping his feet planted. “What possessed you to think that would be acceptable? She had yet to discuss the matter with _me_!”

He was just tired enough to shrug and fail to hide a smirk. “She seemed to think your opinion irrelevant to the decision.”

Lucius went a really satisfying shade of red. “I am _entirely_ relevant to the decision!”

“This really is a matter best left between spouses,” Regulus said dryly. “I would appreciate if you would not involve me in it.”

Which froze Lucius just long enough that Regulus was able to give a short bow and leave. The most important part of a meeting was the individual interview with the Dark Lord, but the majority of the time was spent socializing. When the Dark Lord was finished, he would come give public rewards and punishments, but until then Regulus was free to circulate, more or less without stumbling. He wanted everyone to be aware that he was back and upright—they couldn’t know how weak he was. Some of his tremors could be blamed on the punishment, but the fewer he had, the better.

The ballroom was fairly open, and he thought there might be forty people there. That meant this was a meeting for the cell leaders, the Death Eaters who recruited their own teams and went on raids on their own initiative. From time to time, the Dark Lord would give them specific assignments to carry out, but for the most part they operated independently—and when someone from a cell was arrested, they could only give up the rest of the cell.

He was not, of course, a cell leader himself, but in the hierarchy of the Death Eaters he was on the same level—not to mention that there was no one in his family who would protest if he was gone more often. Most cell leaders didn’t come to every meeting, just in case someone thought their simultaneous absences were noteworthy. Something must have the Dark Lord particularly worked up.

His suspicions were confirmed when the first person he found was Augustus Rookwood, too valuable in the Department of Mysteries to be called to most meetings.

“Sir Rookwood,” Regulus said, bowing from the waist.

Rookwood smiled and gave a shallow bow. “Baron Camoys.” It was Regulus’s courtesy title that he used as heir to his father, the Earl of Huntingdon.

“A pleasure to see you here tonight.” It was. He actually liked Rookwood, who was intelligent and cautious, a great deal more so than his son, a year older than Regulus.

Rookwood inclined his head. “The same to you. Congratulations on recovering from your illness. A drink?” He gestured to an empty round table; the convention at meetings was that house elves would make your drink on the spot.

“Poisoning,” Regulus corrected.

The elder Death Eater stopped, eyebrows raised. “Ah. No drink then. The Order? Or…” He jerked his head at the room.

Regulus shrugged. “Unclear.”

Rookwood sighed. “It would be nice if we could refrain from stabbing each other for long enough to stab the enemy.”

“Nice, but unlikely,” Regulus said, eyeing Bella across the room.

Rookwood followed his gaze. “In all honesty, it is a wonder your uncle kept trying.”

“I believe it was on the grounds that the Rosier line does not carry insanity, so after enough attempts, surely _one_ would be sane.”

Smiling, Rookwood clapped him on the shoulder. Regulus tried not to flinch. “Third time’s the charm, eh?”

Regulus returned the smile. “My mother says it is the age of the Black family that gives us such interesting qualities.”

That startled a snort from Rookwood. “Not content with insulting your own family, you must insult mine.” It had been intended as a mild sting, of course, as the House of Rookwood was very nearly as old as the House of Black, if somewhat lower in rank.

“I beg pardon,” Regulus said blandly, and led the conversation to his real topic of interest. “Tell me, have you any idea why we are _all_ here tonight? This is quite a concentration of power.”

Rookwood sighed. “Rumour has it that Minchum is making Crouch Senior the Law Enforcement head. You may note that among the collected dignitaries of British wizarding nobility, we are lacking the younger Crouch.”

In the open, in the daylight, Augustus Rookwood and Bartemius Crouch were good friends, and Rookwood had helped tutor Bartemius Crouch, Jr, when he was struggling academically. The ensuing recruitment of Bartemius Crouch’s son into the Death Eaters was one of the accomplishments Rookwood was most proud of.

In all honesty, Regulus wasn’t surprised that Barty had made his excuses. If Crouch was going to become the new head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, that would mean parties, and speeches, and other events for Crouch to drag his son to and for Barty to slink around at, looking woebegone and ill-at-ease. And it would mean all attention would be on the tiny Crouch family, and people would ask questions if Barty kept vanishing.

“And I suppose some of us will be asked to go wish Crouch well,” Regulus said, thinking strongly about leaning against a wall. “He will need it, after all. I’ve heard the most _dreadful_ rumours about ruffians running amok.”

It was so easy to act just like he always had, to joke and make light of things that, in reality, were dark and horrifying. The naming of Crouch to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was a sign that the Ministry was finally taking them seriously and that the war was about to get worse—and more overt.

Rookwood smiled slightly. “I suspect there will be a welcoming party, yes. A shame that Barty will have to miss it.”

“You will warn him in advance?” There was a reliable, secret network used to make sure that undercover Death Eaters weren’t discovered—doubly important for someone like Barty Crouch, who literally lived with a man famous for arresting them.

“The welcome party was his idea,” Rookwood said, looking over at a noise. “Ah, Snape. What a surprise to see you socializing with the rest of us. Are the potions not turning out well?”

Severus looked irritated to be directly addressed, but came over to them, shoulders hunched. “Rookwood. Regulus.”

“Severus,” Regulus said. “I hear there’s to be a party at Crouch’s, planning to attend?”

“I don’t do parties,” Severus said stiffly. “Regulus. A word?”

Regulus nodded to Rookwood, who looked accepting of the interruption of their conversation, and let Severus pull him off to the side.

“Is this about our meeting?” Regulus asked, gratefully leaning against the wall. He aimed for a casual lean but suspected that Severus saw right through him.

Severus gave him a dirty look. “It’s one of the matters up for discussion, yes. Was it an _awful_ illness?”

Regulus clenched his jaw, and wished that he didn’t owe quite so much to Severus, not the least of which being his Potions O.W.L. “Poisoning. Actually.”

“I am glad to hear my tutoring was effective.” Severus was tapping his wand against his thigh so it spat out green sparks with every motion. “Is there any chance you spoke with Narcissa the other day?”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Why do you ask questions you already know the answer to?”

Severus stopped twitching long enough to point the wand at Regulus. “Is there any chance your absence is related to the Dark Lord’s terseness for the past two months?”

Caught off guard, Regulus froze. “It’s possible, but that really is a question for himself.” The Dark Lord didn’t like him to talk about how much assistance he gave—and how little the Dark Lord knew about pureblood politics. “He’s been silent?”

“More than usual,” Severus said, lowering his wand. “But today he was...”

They exchanged looks. “I help him articulate ideas,” said Regulus eventually. “I wouldn’t want to think I was indispensable.”

Did that mean that all Regulus had to do to hamstring the war was to vanish?

Severus looked even shiftier than normal. “He wouldn’t like that.” He put his wand away. “In case you have any bright ideas, the raids didn’t stop. The only change, just to keep your ego in check, was he had fewer private meetings.”

Regulus scowled. His legs were trembling and he thought the potion was wearing off. “Thanks, Severus.”

“Any time,” Severus said dryly. “But my point: I visited Malfoy Manor the other day. I may not know what happened this summer, or why you’re keeping it secret from himself, but be aware that not everyone’s loyalty is to his own self-betterment. Do you understand?”

Regulus was beginning to wish he had asked Narcissa to keep their conversation secret. Severus was bright enough to figure out, from whatever Narcissa had said and from what the Dark Lord had said, that Regulus was concealing details. “Yes, some people are loyal to the Dark Lord,” he said, starting to think about making a break for Grimmauld Place.

“Yes,” Severus said, with peculiar emphasis. “Some people are.”

Regulus blinked and stood upright. “Ah.” He considered this. “That must have been an interesting meeting you had with him this evening.”

Severus eyed him. “You should go home.”

“An excellent idea,” Regulus said, and pushed off from the wall. He nearly fell when his knees wouldn’t lock, but someone grabbed his elbow and held him up.

“ _Reggie_!” a voice squealed in his ear.

He flinched, but didn’t try to pull away. “Hello, Bella.”

She frowned deeply, spinning him to face her. “I don’t understand,” she said, pouting. “You didn’t touch my cursed letter—so who did this to you?”

 _The Dark Lord,_ Regulus thought. “A question yet to be answered.”

“Pity.” She prodded him with her wand. “You’re no fun like this.”

He agreed with that, and it was becoming increasingly urgent to get away before he completely collapsed. “Was there something you needed?”

She was looking over his shoulder, however. “Snape.”

“Lestrange,” Severus said neutrally.

“What a _brave_ choice for you to come here, all unprotected.” Bellatrix dropped Regulus’s arm and he staggered.

Severus gave a tight smile and took a step backward. “Alone is not unprotected.”

“Bella,” Regulus said, reaching for his wand. “He wanted to talk with me.”

Bellatrix still wasn’t looking at him, but was eying Severus, wand at her side. “He should scurry off, then, the filthy halfblood.”

Severus drew his wand. “The Dark Lord doesn’t have a problem with my blood,” he said, chin high.

There was an ugly, tense moment before Regulus tried to get between them and all-but fell on Bellatrix. “Leave him alone, he’s good at potions.”

“Potions,” said Bellatrix, sweetly. “Or _poisons_?”

He was supported by Bellatrix’s arm, again, and couldn’t see Severus’s expression, but he could hear the anger in Severus’s voice as he snapped, “ _I would never_.”

“Swear it on your family,” Bellatrix told him. “Your _father’s_ family.”

Regulus shoved himself away from Bellatrix and tilted against the wall. “Severus, just go.”

Severus’s mouth was extremely tight. In a deep, grudging tone he said, “I swear on the Snape family, I did not poison Regulus.” He bowed to both of them, curtly, and walked away.

“Blood will out,” Bellatrix said in Regulus’s ear. “He can’t be trusted.”

Regulus ignored this. He had never made the mistake of trusting anyone in the Death Eaters and didn’t plan to start now. “What a charming display of family loyalty. Is it over now?”

She looked at him. “You’re too weak to come to meetings. Next time you do it, I’ll curse you.”

The thing was, Regulus thought as he nodded and left, that was kindness coming from Bella. He Apparated back home, got himself through the front door, and collapsed in a heap in the entryway. He woke up thirty hours later in bed, Kreacher hovering worriedly.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, before rolling over, vomiting, and passing out again. For the first time in his life, he thought Bellatrix might be right about something.

  
  



	7. The Spy (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry about the 8 day delay. I’ve eaten through my edited chapter buffer and the edits are all pretty substantial, so I could theoretically get one chapter edited a week—if I write every day and if I write nothing else. Neither of these things are really happening at the moment.
> 
> For that reason I’m switching to posting every 2 weeks, so the next update will come March 5th, and then the one after that on March 19th.
> 
> Thanks as always to my betas.
> 
> This week’s warnings: More emotional abuse, death of a parent, academic anxieties, and a whole lot of the Blacks being awful humans. This is a Black family focused chapter.

Four days later, after attending Sunday Mass at a small church off Diagon Alley, Regulus reluctantly went to Teignbridge. It was freeing to be in Grimmauld Place without his parents; there was no one to snap at him for sleeping late or hex his feet if he scuffed the floors. At Teignbridge Manor, there was his mother, who would no doubt have strong opinions on his absence—and his grandfather, who had owled that morning, ordering him to visit after church.

Regulus, whose understanding of religion had been somewhat expanded thanks to the Horcrux, decided that asking the priest his opinions on the immutability of the soul was a bad idea, and went to Teignbridge to speak with Grandfather Arcturus. The manor itself was in the centre of a large—and Unplottable—estate outside of the town of Teignbridge in Devon. He Apparated onto the doorstep to avoid walking all the way across the estate and let himself in. Almost immediately he was greeted by a house elf, who told him to go to Grandfather Arcturus’s office.

Regulus went, shamefully glad to be putting off seeing his mother for that much longer.

Grandfather Arcturus was in his late eighties and had been head of the Black family for the past thirty years. He was a tall, thin man, like so much of his family, but the black hair had gone silver with age. His outer robe was fastened with a heavy, gold chain and on the left side was the Black crest: three hounds rampant on a field crossed black and gold.

He stood behind his desk as Regulus entered the room. “Regulus.”

“Grandfather.” He bowed slightly and sat in the chair on the other side of Grandfather Arcturus’s desk.

Arcturus folded his hands in front of him. “Your father has neglected your teaching,” he said steadily. “Since the Healers told me this morning he is not going to recover, it falls to me to prepare you to take his place.”

Regulus went very cold and felt the blood drain from his face. “He’s not—” The words got caught, somehow, and he had to swallow before he could continue. “Dying?”

Arcturus picked up a quill and then put it down again, flush with the edge of the desk. “The curse is spreading. The Healers think...” He trailed off, blinking. “The end of the year, if not sooner.”

“Oh.” Regulus fisted his hands in his robes. “They couldn’t—they couldn’t identify it?” Would it help if he admitted it was the Aurors? Or only hurt, or would it even matter?

“They called in an expert on Dark magic,” Arcturus said, looking very stiff at the thought—and if Regulus weren’t so consumed with thoughts of his father, he might think it funny that anyone could be more of an expert than the head of the Black family—“and according to her, the curse was botched.”

He nodded, thinking about this. “ _Was_ it botched?”

Arcturus, who had fought on the continent in the war against Grindelwald and knew as much about Dark magic as any wizard alive, said, “No.”

Regulus stared at him, and, for the first time since the party, thought about the Aurors he had killed. One of them had effectively murdered his father—put a curse on him that would lead, inevitably and despite the best Healers money could buy, to death—and for what? For a rumour, albeit an accurate one, that there were Death Eaters? “It is a good thing,” he said eventually, “then, that I killed the caster.”

“Indeed.” Arcturus paused for a moment and sighed. “At any rate, you will come here for lessons from nine to noon every day but Sunday. You won’t be the youngest Duke of Exeter, nor the least prepared, not if I have anything to say about it.”

He swallowed. Of course there would be lessons from Grandfather Arcturus, and no doubt they would be at least as strenuous as his NEWT classes. If only he hadn’t been so _slow_ , he could have blocked the curse and then learned this later.

From his father, he realized, with a start of surprise. He had to learn this regardless, but learning from his father, when he remembered the lessons Sirius had suffered through—no, it was a good thing that he had to learn from his grandfather, and not his father.

“Yes, sir,” he said when the silence had stretched on enough that a response was clearly needed.

Arcturus nodded firmly. “Good. I will expect you tomorrow morning. Before you go, you should go see your father.”

Regulus’s stomach turned over. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly. He didn’t want to, and he _hated_ it, hated that he was scared to see his father and hated that this was all his fault and hated how the anger turned to heat inside of him and made him feel like he would explode. His mother would probably be there and she would only make it all worse, and what kind of a child was he anyway, to be afraid of seeing his parents?

He would have to go regardless; Arcturus did not like to be disobeyed. With a bow, he left his grandfather’s office and walked down the hall to where his grandfather’s wing met the main wing. There he went up a flight of stairs and came to the room his parents always stayed in when they came to Teignbridge.

His guess was right: they were both there, his father lying listlessly in the bed and his mother sitting in a chair beside it. His father looked too thin, skin waxy and stretched over prominent bones, and he seemed to be asleep. His mother was watching his father, and she looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks.

All of a sudden, Regulus didn’t know what to say. Maybe it would be for the best if he just left.

His mother must have heard him, though, because she turned to look. “Who’s there? _Reggie?_ Where have you been?”

He wanted to sink through the floor. “Sick, Mother,” he said, and then, “poisoned.”

“Well?” she snapped, not getting up. “Which is it? Sick or poisoned?”

Regulus hunched his shoulders and stared at the floor. “Poisoned,” he mumbled. “Someone poisoned me, at the party,” he said, improvising, “and then I had to recover.”

She frowned at him. “Come closer.”

He inched closer, shuffling his feet in the thick carpet. The room was dark but for a lamp by his father’s head and it threw shadows across his mother’s face. Maybe she wasn’t really mad at him, maybe it was just the bad lighting.

His mother drew her wand and slashed it sideways. The spell hit him across the face, bright and searing, so he had to catch his breath to keep from crying out. “That was for not writing.”

“Yes, Mother.” Accept, accept and allow, and this would be over soon.

She was staring at him fiercely, her wand still out. “Who poisoned you? One of those Mudblood Aurors?”

An easy explanation but one too full of holes. “No, I think it was a joke. But I reacted badly. Like I do to lacewing flies.” That, at least, was true: he couldn’t brew anything with lacewing in or risk hives all over his body.

For a moment she was silent. “There was an investigation,” she said eventually, tapping her wand on the arm of the chair. “More Aurors, with their filthy blood and their _questions_. Arcturus wouldn’t let them in.”

That was probably for the best, because Regulus couldn’t imagine the reactions of the Aurors to finding a nearly-dead pureblood tended night and day by a house elf with a Horcrux in a box nearby. “Good.” He swallowed, eying his father, who was still asleep. “I am sorry.”

She waved a hand. “We needed your testimony and you were laying around. It was sorted out in the end, no thanks to you.”

He slumped, and took a step closer to the bed. She had misunderstood, but the words were caught in his throat and he couldn’t say them. “And Father-?” The rest of that sentence, too, would not come out.

“Is dying,” she said, voice rough. “That _filthy_ little Auror hit him with a Dark curse.” She sounded bizarrely proud. “It is untreatable.”

Regulus stared at his father. “Oh.” His father was dying, he would be _dead_ , and then Regulus would have to step up and take his place and he suddenly felt very young. “Mother—” He didn’t have anything to say next.

“Oh, Reggie.” She looked at him fondly, as she had done before, when Sirius was still there. “Come here.” His mother stood and held out her arms.

He went over and hugged her, and for a moment she was his mother and he was her child and whatever happened after, she would protect him. She held him tight so he could pretend he was still a little boy, and needed her support, and that she would give it, and they could be a family.

Then she held him away from her and said, “You need to go back to Grimmauld, you’re disturbing your father.”

Regulus flinched, he couldn’t help it, and he hated himself for it, why could she _do this to him_ , why did he cringe and fawn to her even more than he did to the Dark Lord?

His mother frowned at him. “Stop _groveling._ I didn’t hurt you.”

She had but he couldn’t _say_ that; it would only make her worse. “Sorry, Mother. He…” Regulus had to swallow a lump. “Grandfather Arcturus wants me back tomorrow morning. Lessons.”

She wrinkled her nose and tapped her wand against his chest. “You’ll come see me after every one, do I make myself clear? I won’t have you going days without speaking with me.”

“Yes, Mother.” He felt sick and nearly ran from the room when his mother sat back down.

* * *

He found a new sense of normalcy after that. In the mornings he went to Teignbridge and learned from Arcturus, who could be scathing but at least never cursed him, about political alliances and pieces of history that would eventually be invaluable. In the afternoons he was at Grimmauld trying to undo some of his father’s nastier tricks, and most evenings now he went out, either to a Death Eater meeting or to a party, where he would gossip and laugh and try not to scream at the others.

It haunted him now, because it was so obvious how hopeless they were. Sure, they could take down the Ministry! But then what? They could even, with the Dark Lord, get the Headmaster. They could liberate Azkaban, they could conquer the country, only no one in the Death Eaters seemed to have any thought for what to do after that.

And he couldn’t tell anyone, because he wanted the Dark Lord dead, and pointing out flaws in the grand plan was precisely the wrong way to go about that.

He slept deeply and not nearly enough, which was probably why he was always exhausted, only that wasn’t quite enough to explain how none of his robes fit anymore. Kreacher and Dobby pestered him to eat more—he was eating, wasn’t he? They just badgered him because that was what house elves did.

He woke up most mornings shivering and drenched in sweat, but could never remember why. Probably the poison, unless he was just having nightmares of the cave and kept forgetting them. Maybe there was a curse he had missed?

Regulus couldn’t say he was happy, but it was nice to have a time when life was predictable. He thought again and again about writing the Ministry—surely there was someone who would listen to him, if not in the Ministry then in the Headmaster’s little militant group. But he could never think of who, or what to say.

_Dear Professor Dumbledore,_

_I’ve realized the Dark Lord is evil and want to help you. Also, I have a piece of his soul if that’s the sort of thing you find useful._

_Sincerely,_

_Regulus_

Even thinking about it would make him cringe and eventually he stopped doing it at all. He wanted to hurt the Dark Lord, he _did—_ even in a box, the Horcrux was chilling and abhorrent—but there didn’t seem to be a good way to do so, so he would have to wait.

September rolled into October, which came with rain, and then into November, which came with less rain but also his NEWT scores.

He opened the envelope with trepidation. He knew he hadn’t done his best, what with the worry over the Horcrux, but he had some hope—

_Regulus Arcturus Black has achieved:_

Ancient Runes – P

Arithmancy – A

Defence Against the Dark Arts – D

Potions – P

Transfiguration – E

He had to sit down at the kitchen table and stare at the parchment until the letters made sense. He had failed _three classes?_ The only grade his parents would _remotely_ find acceptable was Transfiguration, but how had he failed Defence? He was _good_ at Defence, even Bella could hardly curse him now—

He remembered, belatedly, being too tired to even shield properly and nearly hitting the examiner with Dark magic.

Potions was bad. Severus was going to actually kill him: there would be comments to the effect of “I didn’t waste my time tutoring the obscenely rich to have you fail the only test that matters”.

Runes was…disappointing but, ultimately, not a surprise either. Arithmancy _was_ a surprise—that one he had been sure he failed.

Two NEWTS. For the first time, he considered skipping his lesson with Arcturus.

Just in time he remembered that Arcturus had shown up at Grimmauld Place before and shown no hesitation then in dragging Regulus’s mother to Teignbridge. With a groan, he took the Floo and came out in a study down the hall from Arcturus’s study.

His grandfather wasn’t there, which was unusual. He frowned and went to his parents’ room. For the last month, his father had been markedly worse from day to day, and there was now a Healer living in the next room down. The week before, he hadn’t even been able to recognize Regulus when he walked in.

Now the room was empty except for his father and Arcturus, who turned at his entrance. “Close the door behind you.”

Regulus did, and slunk closer to the bed. “Is he...” His father had been dying for weeks—months—but there was a difference between the long, slow progression Regulus had witnessed and whatever was meant by the serious expression on Arcturus’s face.

“Sirius?” his father said loudly, cutting off whatever Arcturus had been going to say.

Teeth clenched, Regulus took a seat by the bed. “No, Father. It’s Regulus.” They had stopped trying to explain Sirius’s disowning; he never remembered anyway.

Arcturus shook his head and stepped back. “Today is not a good day.”

“What are you talking about?” his father shouted, shoulders shaking as he tried to prop himself up. “Is that you, Regulus? Are you still studying?”

“Yes sir,” he said automatically, heart sinking. His father, leaning on a cane even then, had come to graduation. “My NEWT scores came yesterday.” It was best to get it over with quickly: they would find out anyway, and hopefully with his father to care for, Arcturus wouldn’t hurt him too badly.

His father nodded, sinking back into the pillows. “Where’s that eldest of mine? Haven’t seen him around. Tell him to-to get his ass in here ‘fore I Summon it here.” His energy was draining and he looked older than Arcturus—his own father.

Arcturus cleared his throat. “Orion, Sirius isn’t here.”

His father coughed, a deep hacking noise that went on and on. “Speak up, boy! Christ, I don’t know how you’re to be Duke with that attitude.” He was staring directly at Regulus—did he think it was just the two of them?

Arcturus shook his head and gestured at Regulus.

Stomach churning, Regulus said loudly, “Sirius isn’t here!”

“Well I know that, don’t I!” his father snapped. “Disowned the lad, didn’t I.” His head fell back onto the pillows. “Where’s Burga?”

“She’s asleep,” Arcturus said.

“Sleeping, Father,” Regulus repeated, willing his father to get it, to stay in this room with him, and not to slip away again. “My NEWTs came, sir.”

His father stared at him for a long, worrying moment. “Eh? Go on then, share them!”

“E in Transfiguration,” he said, watching his father closely. If the Blacks got a Mastery in anything, it was Dark Arts, not in Transfiguration. “A in Arithmancy.” It was best not to mention the failing grades; eighteen years with his parents had taught him that much.

“You got _what_?” his father snarled, looking more alive than he had for the rest of the conversation. “My son, my son calls himself a Black and gets an _acceptable_? You dirty little…” He began coughing again, shallower this time, rasps that sounded week and frail.

Arcturus stepped to the other side of the bed. “It will be all right, Orion.”

His father made an awful choking noise and gasped out, “ _Father_?”

“I’m here.” Arcturus’s expression was very stiff and tight.

Regulus wanted to slink away. His grandfather would surely have noticed that he left out his other tests, and his father was—

Closing his eyes and struggling to breathe at all and hands twitching and Arcturus was calling for the Healer but Regulus couldn’t move.

Time had stopped.

There were too many people in the room, Arcturus and the Healer and his _mother_ and other relatives but all Regulus cared about was his father, who had always been so strong and proud and ordered, and who was moving slower and slower, smaller and smaller motions, fewer and fewer of them until—

Arcturus stepped away from the bed, face blank, and the Healer looked distraught, and his mother screamed, and someone was crying, and all Regulus could think was that the man who had taught him how to fly and who had cursed him and praised him in equal measure for his grades, who had ruffled his hair and taught him how to send Sirius careening down the stairs, who had held him to a higher standard than any other and been delighted when he reached that standard—

There was a corpse in the bed, and Regulus couldn’t quite call it his father.

* * *

He spent that night at Teignbridge.

The funeral and burial would be on Sunday and until then he wouldn’t go back to Grimmauld Place. There was too much to get done, and he was too afraid he wouldn’t leave Grimmauld Place once allowed to go back. His father was _dead_ , he had to step up, and the months of tutoring didn’t seem like enough now. The Earl of Huntingdon might be a meaningless courtesy title officially, but within the family it meant he was now Arcturus’s second and had duties to perform.

Relatives arrived from all over the world and filled the bedrooms at Teignbridge: the Black family was large and even when daughters married, they and their children were still considered part of the family.

Many of them came in legally, registering their arrival with the Ministry. Some did not: usually this was because they were avoiding government notice, like Nigel Ignoto,who was wanted in five countries for kidnapping and extortion, or the Deiamand sisters, who had been banned from entering Britain after they burned down three manors for the jewelry inside.

Regulus’s favourite arrivals were a half dozen American Indians claiming descent from Elladora Black, a younger sister of Phineas Nigellus who had run off in the 1850s, and who had turned up primarily for the opportunity to see what sort of situation Britain was in.

Time passed in weird fits and starts, some parts dragging on for ages while he could never quite remember where others went. In the end, Sunday came and brought with it clouds and thick fog.

The funeral was in the morning, followed by a short break, and then the burial. Everyone was invited to the funeral, from Minister for Magic Minchum on down, and order was only kept by the frequent glares and exhortations of the presiding priest.

Despite this, Regulus refrained from fidgeting mostly through sheer force of will. The priest went on and _on_ about Orion’s good qualities, none of which Regulus could remember seeing in person. Arcturus would periodically pinch him if he thought Regulus was moving too much, which helped Regulus keep still but it didn’t do much for his spinning thoughts. He just couldn’t seem to match the body in the casket with the father he had known.

When the service was over—and he never could remember the homily, or any details aside from tapping his feet and the pinching—he stood with Grandfather Arcturus and Grandmother Melania and walked out of the church. His mother was following, but she had been sitting on the opposite side of the aisle, with Grandfather Pollux and Grandmother Irma.

Then there was the reception. The burial would be private, Blacks only, but the reception was for everyone who had ever known Orion Black. And every one of them, or it felt like, wanted to see the new Earl of Huntingdon and shake his hand.

He shook hands and smiled politely. He let them console him, and never mentioned that he didn’t need consoling, that he hadn’t once cried over the body of his dead father. He didn’t tell any of them how messed up that was, how damaged he must be to not even grieve. He spoke with the Minister for Magic, and with all of the Departmental Heads, and asked after their spouses and children. Many of the people he spoke with were Death Eaters, and from them there were many comments about how this would open up his schedule and give him more resources. He smiled at them too, only these smiles hid hate and fear.

They couldn’t know. They could never know. He hadn’t even managed to tell Arcturus, and he knew that his grandfather was not fond of the Dark Lord.

The break between the funeral and the burial was just long enough to allow him a moment of gasping panic in a bathroom—he couldn’t do this, he was too young, Bellatrix was going to eat him alive—and then he had to Apparate to the cemetery on the borders of the estate.

Even Arcturus’s pinches couldn’t keep him from fidgeting his way through the burial, but when it was done, he had to stand straight and acknowledge an endless parade of relatives. It was a preventative measure: If everyone was seen to admit that he was next in line to become Duke of Exeter, there should be no squabbling or fights when the time came to inherit.

Only what it meant today was standing next to his father’s grave and talking to every member of his family, many of whom he disliked and some he downright hated. He forced his face to smile at relatives, who pulled him into tearful hugs or firmly shook his hand.

He kept an eye out for Great Aunt Cassiopeia in the hopes she would turn up, although she hadn’t for the funeral. She had been shunned by the family since marrying the son of a Muggleborn, but periodically she would turn up to family events and give the children presents in the form of obscure books. It was why he had thought to write her about the locket, back when he had no idea what it was.

More importantly, he wanted to drop a hint about the letter he meant to write soon. He wanted her opinion on how to make contact with the opposition, but he couldn’t just _say that_ in a letter without giving her a heart attack.

Only all afternoon there was no sign of her. Regulus kept looking around but she never came and spoke with him, and he had to think instead of who else he could write to.

Of course, he had to keep greeting relatives even while he was thinking. There was Callidora, who had married Harfang Longbottom, and Grandfather Pollux and Grandmother Irma, and a handful of cousins from a branch in Eastern Europe, and Lucretia Prewett, who should have been disowned for her marriage but had threatened to curse her father and the matter had quietly been dropped, and Aunt Druella, who was here in place of _her_ deceased husband and looked about ready to collapse.

Then there was his mother. “Lord Huntingdon.” Her curtsy was deep and shaky.

Regulus matched it with an equally deep bow. “Mother.”

She was tear stained and blinking rather fast, reaching out for his hands with an air of desperation. “You know I’ll always be here to help you, don’t you, Reggie?”

“Of course,” he said immediately. Was she—afraid? He couldn’t tell, but she didn’t usually need things from him. Would she be coming back to Grimmauld Place now?

She looked up at him sternly. “And you know what happens to boys who don’t use _all_ their resources?” she said in a much lower voice.

He flinched and immediately regretted it. “Yes, Mother.” He hated her for turning him into this simpering child yet he couldn’t see how to stop it.

“Good boy.” She kissed his cheek, and, thank God, moved on.

Then there was Bartemius Crouch, Sr, and Bartemius Crouch, Jr—Barty looked particularly smug and not at all upset. Crouch Sr’s mother had been Charis Black, and while generally grandchildren of a Black woman were not brought to Black family gatherings, the Crouch family was dying out and there had once been a proposal to marry Andromeda to Barty, before her scandal. Besides, if Barty didn’t come to Black family events, he would be left to his own devices and that was worrying to anyone who knew him.

Of course, the presence of Crouch Sr inhibited the behaviour of other Black family members, which depending on perspective was only arguably bad—Bellatrix was looking particularly frustrated—and then there were the Eastern European relatives, one of whom was married to a Dolohov.

Regulus and Barty, and any other Death Eater present, knew that Antonin Dolohov had murdered Charis Black as retribution for Crouch Sr’s actions in the Ministry, but officially the murder was still unsolved—even if Antonin would goad Barty over it whenever they were at meetings together.

“Lord Huntingdon.” Crouch Sr inclined his head. Out of his father’s line of sight, Barty gave a dramatic bow.

Regulus nodded to the pair of them. “Thank you for your presence, sir. The Black family acknowledges your support.” The words were completely in line with protocol, as relatives who were not part of the family and still appeared at family gatherings were taken to be strong allies, but also Crouch Sr. was a Dark wizard hunter.

As expected, the man’s moustache twitched. “Ah… Yes. Unfortunately, we cannot stay very long. Come, Bartemius.” Crouch Sr. spun on his heel and made his way to the door.

Barty grinned openly, horrible Slytherin that he was, and snapped off a sarcastic salute at his father. “Such is life, I suppose. See you soon, Reg?”

Regulus wanted to curse him. Instead he put on a polite smile and remained silent.

There was a string of other relatives he only met at formal occasions, and then Dorea Potter née Black approached him, husband and son in tow. The Potters weren’t much better than the Prewetts, from a Black perspective, but Dorea had presented the issue as a _fait accompli_ and to date, no one had seen a benefit to disowning her—not even to make a point, for Dorea was a vicious and accomplished witch.

It occurred to him, as the Potter family was bowing and curtsying, that Cassiopeia might not be here but Dorea had at least as much contact with Sirius as her sister did.

“Lord Huntingdon,” she said, straightening.

“Great Aunt,” he said politely, more politely than he had to most of his other relatives. “The silver lining in this, I must say, is that I have had the opportunity to meet family members I otherwise rarely see.”

Dorea gave him a sharp look. “An interesting comment coming from you.”

Behind her, James Potter was frowning and glaring at Regulus, but he had his hands behind his back and didn’t seem openly aggressive, so Regulus let it pass. They hadn’t gotten along at Hogwarts, by mutual understanding, and Regulus was fairly sure James Potter was one of the vigilantes fighting the Death Eaters—which until recently would have made him Regulus’s opponent.

“Finishing school has given me a new approach to certain matters,” he said blandly in response to Dorea’s statement. “As it is, your presence here is appreciated.”

She nodded to this and moved on, taking her husband and son with her.

There were more relatives, some he knew and many he didn’t, and eventually, finally, just before sunset, there was no one else, and Arcturus walked him back to the manor.

If his grandfather had any words for him, Regulus didn’t notice. He closed the door of the guest bedroom and let his formal robes fall to the floor. The elves would get them, or he could do it in the morning. It didn’t matter.

Nothing really seemed to matter.

His father was dead and buried, and Regulus was now Earl of Huntingdon, or would be once the Wizengamot confirmed his succession, and while this was surely good for his plans, he couldn’t seem to think past the hole in his world. His father was dead.


	8. The Spy (3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> argh, between life and other writing, this is late, again. I’m hoping (fingers crossed + some luck?) to get Chapter 9 up in the next two weeks. In April I do Camp NaNo and this year I’m doing a bit of original fiction, so there will be no April updates; in May I’m going to try again to build a buffer. Chapter 9 will be up as soon as it’s edited, but Chapter 10 won’t be up until at least June 4th.
> 
> Triggers: Self-harm, self-injury for the purposes of magic, blood.
> 
> Thanks as always to noaacat and sabreprincess for fixing my grammar and putting up with my idiosyncrasies.

It took three days for Regulus to go back to Grimmauld Place. Even though he had been living there alone for months, there was still something unnerving about returning to his father’s house when his father never could go back.

Still, there was the matter of the Horcrux—and the suddenly urgent matter of securing it.

Only the strongest wizards could cast spells that lasted beyond their death, and his father had merely been competent. The spells that protected the house from the outside world would have fallen the moment his father died, but the street was secluded and Dobby would have fetched him if anything had happened.

But Regulus would be called before the Wizengamot next week, and no doubt there would be a Death Eater meeting sometime soon, and between one and the other he suspected there would be people who wished to see him, and under no circumstances was he letting Antonin Dolohov into his house without making sure the knives were all safely locked away.

 _His_ house.

It was a jarring thought. It felt like, if anyone’s, Grimmauld Place should be his mother’s, but legally, while she received a third of his father’s funds as her dower, the physical estate—including Grimmauld Place—was entailed to him. Not only did he have Grimmauld Place, but a cottage in Northumbria, hunting rights in Exmoor, and a dozen smallholdings each with its own leaseholder and stack of paperwork. He had already spent hours in Arcturus’s office trying to sort out which properties were his as Orion’s son, which were his as Earl of Huntingdon, and which were his as heir to the Duchy of Exeter.

Of course, none of this made any difference to his mother. She had to stay at Teignbridge for another week to finish resolving details around his father’s will and estates, but then, as she had already informed him, she would be returning to Grimmauld. It might legally be his house but he couldn’t imagine saying no to his mother in anything, but in this least of all.

Still, he determined to make the best of his time alone, and first he would need to protect the Horcrux.

He Apparated back to Grimmauld Place in the early morning and spent at least fifteen minutes calming the elves. Kreacher was thrilled that he had not only returned, but was now Earl of Huntingdon, at least nominally, and Dobby was… a weird little elf. Regulus could see why Narcissa had wanted to be rid of him. Dobby did his best, Regulus had found, if given goals but no precise directions and left to solve the problem on his own. Only when he’d arrived, Dobby had plainly been ironing his ears and it took several questions to get him to say it was because he hadn’t known what else to do.

Regulus made sure Dobby put a burn balm on his ears before inspecting the wards on the front door. Along the right doorjamb, on the inner side, was a long column of Elder Futhark runes. They weren’t particularly neat and they extended from just above eye level down to his knees.

Runes were shorthand for complex magical concepts, which came in handy when trying to protect a building. Several spells could be tied to one rune—for example, _mannaz_ , which some ancestor had carved at the top, was probably used for a spell of warning, that rang a bell when someone entered the house, and a spell of protection, that kept those with ill-intent from getting near, and a spell of identification, that let the house knew who should be there and who should not.

The runes themselves were already carved, and had been for generations. His job was to pick what spells would go with each rune—and then to cast them, without faltering and without stumbling. He Summoned parchment and quill and began to write, leaning against the opposite frame.

Around noon Kreacher fetched him lunch, and he took a break to flip through a reference book in the library, but after that he returned to the door with fistfuls of parchment. The more spells he could cast, the more secure the Horcrux would be, but the weaker Regulus would be afterward. Wards came with a price, although what, precisely, it would be changed from person to person and ward to ward; he knew his father had always been weaker in the left leg than he should have been, and his grandfather Cygnus hadn’t been able to write on Sundays. And, he thought glumly, scratching out another thought, not all spells would coexist on the same rune. Sometimes the caster got lucky and the spells dissipated harmlessly, but far more often the caster was hit with backlash.

It was nightfall before he had a list that would work. He thought it would leave the house far more protected than it had been under his father; that was one reason he had taken Ancient Runes. While the class covered all uses for runes—the one he had so spectacularly botched during the NEWT had been meant for crisis situations, where the caster drew the rune directly with their wand and so cast it instantly and without focus—it had addressed warding buildings in sixth year and Regulus had paid close attention.

Drawing his wand, he nicked the tip of his left pointer finger, just enough to bleed, and pressed it against the top of the first rune. Wards were built on blood and earth—the earth was the doorframe, and he supplied the blood. Slowly, he dragged his finger across the and covered the first rune. With his finger still pressed to _mannaz_ , he said the spells in a low, chanting voice.

It felt like something was watching him and he hurriedly moved on before the suspense could break.

The second rune was _th_ _urisaz_ and stood for giants, and thunder, and to it Regulus had put protection from weather, and a nasty surprise for anyone who tried to enter without permission, and a spell to strike any who attempted to harm the caster.

That spell, he knew, his father had also used: Sirius had the jagged scar from it across his shoulder, overlapping the curse scars Orion gave him in the same argument.

Then there was _sowilo,_ the third, and _laguz,_ the fourth, and twenty more after that. There were spells to protect the house from change, keep it in its place and not decay, guard it against flood and drought, keep the residents safe from sickness, war, and famine; the house was protected from Muggles and was made unplottable and invisible to any who did not know it was there. It would be kept from fire, earthquake, and storm, and from all acts of gods. It could only be entered through the fireplace and the two doors, and then only with Regulus’s knowledge and permission, and all enemies and pests would be expressly forbidden. The work of the elves was encouraged, and traitors were prevented from acting; food would not go stale and water would be fresh and always pure, no matter what was put in; and Regulus, as lord of the house, would have control of it all.

It wasn’t a Fidelus, not quite, but it was as strong as he could get without having to trust anyone.

The air shimmered as he started to pull away and there was a quiet hum. He didn’t dare breathe. Something slid against him, raising the hairs on his arms, and then suddenly it snapped into place, leaving his ears ringing and his head pounding.

His wand fell to the floor and burst into flames.

He yelped, grabbing for it, not caring about the heat until his fingers closed around the handle. His hand came away before he could even think about it, and then the pain hit, searing and hot and raw. Holding his hand to his chest, he hovered over the flames—his wand—and tried to put it out by blowing on it, even though he realized how ineffectual that would be almost immediately.

Soon, sooner than he might have expected, the flames died down and left behind a black line of ash. The floor beneath was unmarked.

He was on his knees and scrabbled at the ashes, coming up with nothing but black powder. His wand was gone. The house was protected but his wand was _gone_. That was his price, it seemed.

He leaned back against the door-frame, facing the runes. Whatever the cost, it was done now. Grimmauld Place was safe. No one could come in without his knowledge and permission. Not his mother, not his grandfather, and not the Dark Lord.

Which was good, he thought, exhausted and hand still bleeding, because he had a piece of the Dark Lord’s soul in a box underneath his bed.

* * *

The next day he didn’t have the energy to get out of bed and spent the morning staring at the wall. Dobby came in with lunch and a note from Teignbridge—his mother had not finished the affairs but she had antagonized all of the lawyers and was being sent away while Arcturus dealt with everything that didn’t absolutely require her presence. According to the note, she would be by in the evening.

He would have to get a wand, but that clearly wasn’t happening today as he fainted the one time he tried to get out of bed. However, it occurred to him that now would be the perfect time to send letters his mother shouldn’t know about. There were two he wanted to send, in the hopes of improving the odds of a reply: One to Aunt Cassiopeia and one to Aunt Dorea. He had Dobby bring him a writing desk and materials, and managed to prop himself upright.

_Dear Aunt Cassiopeia,_

_I was wondering if you might pass a message to our departed. I wish to make amends. I will be at the local café, you know the one, on Epiphany at noon._

_Thank you for your time in reading this letter. If there is anything I can do for you and yours, please, let me know._

_Sincerely,_

_Regulus Black, Earl of Huntingdon_

He penned a similar note to Aunt Dorea and called Dobby to post the letters. Epiphany was in early January, more than a month away, but he wanted that time to think about what he would say to his brother. He had nothing to prove himself with except the Horcrux and he was leery of showing that to Sirius, who had always run off with every fascinating thing Regulus had ever found, from dead beetles to obscure spells to an ornate box that spoke in an unknown language when touched.

It was ironic that both of Walburga’s sons had ended up opposing the Dark Lord. She would _murder_ him if she found out, though—of course, that was only if someone else didn’t find out first. He would have to make sure that everything he did could be justified as one of the Dark Lord’s Death Eaters. The easiest way to do this, he suspected, would be to convince the Dark Lord that Regulus was only _pretending_ to turn traitor and reality he was spying _for_ the Dark Lord, not _against_ him. That would, he hoped, give him cover no matter what happened in the war.

He had reached out to his brother, who no doubt was involved with a resistance group that the Dark Lord would be interested in. The next step would be to ask the Dark Lord for permission, and that would have to wait until the next Death Eater meeting.

Regulus sighed, content, and pulled the blankets up around him.

* * *

His mother turned up shortly before Kreacher served dinner. She was tear-stained and skipped the meal to slam the door to the master bedroom and wail loudly. After the wailing died down, Kreacher went to coax her into eating.

Regulus said, “Hello, Mother,” when she came in, but she didn’t respond, so he went to have his own in the kitchen.

After dinner he stood on the landing outside the master bedroom for two—three—four minutes, shifting from foot to foot and trying to work out if he should ask permission to go to Diagon in the morning for a new wand. Eventually he heard her moving and fled to his room, where he sat with his back to the wall until he could breathe normally. He would just have to sneak into the kitchen and Floo to Diagon.

He set his alarm for eight in the morning, hoping his mother would want to sleep late—she usually did, but would she now? Maybe she was lonely. He didn’t know anything about this. How did people change after their spouse died? Maybe she would yell less.

Regulus went to bed early and woke, twitchy and exhausted, even before the alarm went off. He dressed and crept down the stairs. If his mother was awake, he couldn’t tell, but he made it to the kitchen without incident. “Diagon Alley,” he whispered, throwing powder into the fire.

He stepped through and made his way from the Leaky Cauldron to Ollivander’s. It was closed—as he should have known, if he had stopped long enough to think about it, because Ollivander sold _wands_ , and most wizards looking for one came over the summer.

Not in mid-November.

Regulus was tempted to turn around and walk right back home, only he didn’t have a wand. He couldn’t cast any spells; he was defenceless in the middle of a war, and then there was the Horcrux.

As he raised his hand to knock, the door swung open.

He frowned at it. There were spells that would open doors when approached, but he hadn’t been _approaching._ He had stood in front of the door with no response; it had only opened when he raised a hand.

Giving it up as unknowable, Regulus stepped inside.

The shop was dark and cramped with floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed full of wandboxes. The door swung shut behind him, making Regulus’s shoulders tense.

Ollivander was, bafflingly, already behind the counter. Shouldn’t he be carving wands or whatever he did during the school year? Why was his shop even open? It was convenient for Regulus, sure, but it didn’t make any _sense_.

“Mr Black,” Ollivander said, not being privy to Regulus’s jumbled thoughts. “Am I to understand you find yourself in need of a wand?”

Regulus felt himself turn red. It was rare, but not unheard of, for adult wizards to lose a wand due to malice or accident, but such wizards were considered unlucky to have needed two wands.

Regulus was on his _third._

When he had first gone to Hogwarts, he had taken his great grandfather Sirius’s wand, ash with a goblin hair core. His mother had insisted then that he not go to Ollivander’s like a commoner, as if they didn’t already have plenty of Black family wands in Gringotts. The wand hadn’t fit him at all, and Sirius had taken him down to Diagon Alley with Potter when they were almost fourteen and Regulus barely twelve, and he’d gotten _his_ wand: ebony and dragon heartstring.

That wand had burned up.

He knew the silence had dragged on for far too long but couldn’t find words anyway.

Ollivander crossed the room and pulled out a tape measure. “Don’t worry, Mr Black, I haven’t failed a customer yet.”

“That’s not what I was worried about,” Regulus muttered.

Ollivander ignored this. “Your previous wand was ebony and dragon heartstring, twelve inches, slightly flexible. Very nice for anything intent based, still quite handy for charms. That matched you well then but…” He looked Regulus up and down. “You’ve changed. Something else will suit you better.”

Regulus gave in. Ollivander had been weird when Sirius had taken Reg to get his new wand, and he supposed it was foolishness to expect anything different now.

“Now. Try this,” Ollivander said, and handed him a wand.

He waved it lackadaisically to no effect.

Ollivander took the wand back and began pulling out boxes while Regulus stared at the counter. He’d thought briefly about going to Gringotts for one of the wands in their vaults, but his mother would know, she knew _everything_ in those faults and would recognize any wand he picked, and he was trying to avoid that, because even if she agreed with the wards she would find something to attack him on. She’d screamed at him for hours when he came home with his new wand, but Sirius had taken the blame and the curses, and even his mother couldn’t argue that the new wand didn’t work better.

He tried a dozen more wands and Ollivander discarded all of them, frowning and muttering to himself. Regulus was just gritting himself to ask if maybe Ollivander wanted time to make more wands, if perhaps the ideal wand would just have to wait, when his Mark burned sharply.

His breath hitched slightly and his hand tightened on the current wand.

“Ah?” Ollivander said, tilting his head. “I wouldn’t have thought that one a suitable match, not for you.”

Regulus blinked, arm on fire and mind blank. “Well it is,” he said, trying to think past the urge to Apparate on the spot and rush to the Dark Lord.

Ollivander gave him a strange look but said only, “The match is not good, and the wand knows it. It will obey you, but always fitfully.”

Wand lore was the furthest thing from Regulus’s mind. “Yes, what is the cost?”

“It is apple and dragon heartstring, a rare combination as applewood dislikes Dark magic and dragon heartstring is drawn towards power, of which Dark magic is one form,” Ollivander said, ignoring him. “Two galleons.”

That was absurdly low but anything to get him out and away, to go and take his new wand and present himself to the Dark Lord. He pulled the coins from his belt pouch and handed them over.

“A pleasure seeing you, Mr Black.”

Regulus gave him an absent nod and bolted for the door, Apparating the moment he stepped outside.

* * *

The Mark led him to one of Malfoy’s townhouses, some new sleek building across the city from Grimmauld. Lucius had probably bought it so he didn’t have to live with his father, a scheme Regulus had a new appreciation for. He appeared in the back garden, which was cleaned of plants and paved with cobblestones. There was no one at the door, but there was a sign reading _Door unlocked, Meeting on 1_ _st_ _floor_.

He let himself in and went straight up the flight of stairs to a small landing; light and noise came from under one of the doors.

Griselda Macnair swung the door open at his knock, revealing a room full of chattering people and smelling strongly of alcohol. “Hello, condolences on your loss, et cetera. Avery brought the entertainment if you want, but the Dark Lord will see you first.”

Regulus bowed to her, continued it slightly to include her companions, and took a quick glance at what Avery had brought: a skinny man, a Muggle most likely, who had a bruised forehead and a shaken, confused look. Charming. “I suppose we’re to turn it loose and hunt it down?”

Griselda raised her eyebrows. “Ooh, that would be entertaining. No, so far the plan is to confuse it.”

“Boring,” Regulus pronounced. “Where’s himself?”

“Across the hall. I’ll see if I can’t get Avery to come up with something more _interesting_...” She trailed off and headed across the room to Avery.

Regulus backed out and closed the door behind him. There were two other doors coming off the landing, but one was slightly ajar. He swallowed, knocked, and went in.

The Dark Lord was alone, seated in a throne-like chair in the middle of the otherwise empty room. “My servant. You may enter.”

Regulus stepped in, letting the door swing shut behind him. He crossed the room and fell to his knees in front of the Dark Lord.

“Congratulations on your promotion, Lord Huntingdon,” the Dark Lord said, voice dry.

He _would_ see it that way, Regulus thought before squashing that rapidly. “Thank you, my Lord.”

The Dark Lord looked down on him. “What advantages will this elevation give our cause, my servant?”

“I fear not much, my Lord,” Regulus said, thinking fast. “My status in most of society was already based on the assumption that I would someday become Earl; as such, little will change on that front. The only thing I can think…” He trailed off, trying to pull something together. “The middle class. They respond to the form of power; my ascension will make it easier to accomplish tasks when working with those not of the noble class.”

The Dark Lord nodded, rubbing his chin. “That will be kept in mind. Perhaps you will be of use with Lucius.”

There would never be a better opportunity. “In fact, my lord, I was thinking…” He made the mistake of catching the Dark Lord’s eye. “My disowned brother, he may believe that I am wavering with our father’s death and if he does, my lord, I could spy for you. I could tell you what they’re up to, Dumbledore and the Ministry.”

“ _Legilimens_.”

He let the Dark Lord see the letters and made not the slightest pretence at hiding things. His chest was where it always was, but he left it open, lock dangling. The Dark Lord was in and out in a breath, clearly seeing what he was looking for at the front of Regulus’s mind.

Regulus remained still, ignoring the cramp in his knee. Everything hinged on the Dark Lord’s response.

“I do not appreciate my Death Eaters acting without my order, especially not on a matter so great as this,” the Dark Lord said, leaning forward on his throne. “This decision may be the right one, but it will not always be that way. _Crucio_.”

The pain was light and short, a searing burning stripe across his body that glanced away almost immediately. He took it for the message it was, and managed to keep his body still. “Thank you, my Lord.”

The Dark Lord leaned back. “Do not expect me to be so lenient next time.”

Regulus took a deep, careful breath. “There will be no next time, my Lord.”

“Fortunately,  I agree with your impression. I have need of a spy in the fool’s ranks, and if you can manage your own cover, so much the better.” The Dark Lord looked pleased. At best guess, he was adjusting his plans to account for this move.

He tried not to relax too obviously.

The Dark Lord eyed him for a long time. “You are expected to present yourself as befits one of my servants. Your power and skill should unnerve the Order. Am I clear?”

Regulus bowed his head. “I understand, my Lord.”

“I will see you at the next meeting,” the Dark Lord said, and looked away.

He was shaking as he stood and bowed. Let the Dark Lord assume it was the Cruciatus. Eyes carefully lowered, he backed out of the room.

The others were partying—Rowle in particular was going on and _on_ about some new recruit—but he only wanted to go home. His chest was tight and he couldn’t breathe properly, but all he could think about was how dead he would be if the Dark Lord ever discovered what he was really up to.

* * *

Regulus spent much of the next week trying to avoid his mother, learn from his grandfather, memorize protocol for the Wizengamot, practice with his new wand, and try repeatedly to hide the Horcrux from his mother. Walburga thought that privacy was only practiced by untrustworthy sorts, and went out of her way to violate his repeatedly. Every day, if not more frequently, Regulus went around and put the Horcrux in some location that she had recently been over.

On November 24th, he dressed in his most formal robes and went to the Wizengamot.

The Wizengamot was the oldest organization in wizarding Britain; its origins had been lost to time although the name itself recalled the Anglo-Saxon kings. For centuries it had paralleled the early Muggle Parliaments as a regular gathering of wizarding nobility to discuss grander matters than those between one wizard and another—and, of course, to negotiate the issue of taxes with the ruling monarch. When the Statute of Secrecy was passed, wizarding Britain needed a more powerful and representative bureaucracy to maintain order, and thus the Ministry of Magic was formed.

In response the Royalist faction in the Wizengamot moved to put limitations on the powers of both the new Ministry and the now more powerful Wizengamot. The Wizengamot was forbidden from collecting taxes, as that had passed from the monarch to the Ministry, and the Ministry in turn was forbidden from conducting trials, under the argument that only nobles could try nobles and that, if a case involving commoners could not be solved by the local lord, it should be debated by the Wizengamot as a whole.

Of course, this left the Wizengamot perpetually short on funds and the Ministry struggling to manage criminals. The divisiveness and antagonism within the Wizengamot had not died down over the years either, and, with minor interruptions, they had met in various Ministry buildings since 1692, as they had never been able to pass a motion agreeing on a location and funds for their own building.

Regulus thought the whole thing absurd at any rate, that the Wizengamot couldn’t agree on anything so minor as meeting locations. Still, he went to the Ministry of Magic as directed and met his grandfather in the lobby.

“Courtroom ten,” Grandfather Arcturus said. “They’ve scheduled you between two trials of Dark wizards, so I expect you to present yourself well. The more neutral, the better.”

Regulus nodded and followed his grandfather to the lifts. Just the sight of Arcturus Black was enough to clear hallways: He might be Duke of Exeter, but most of wizarding Britain knew him better as the wizard who had defeated two of Grindelwald’s lieutenants in a duel.

At the courtroom, Grandfather Arcturus went on in, while Regulus was shuffled off to an antechamber with another petitioner and two Aurors on duty. He straightened his robes and eyed the witch. She looked familiar but he couldn’t put a finger on why.

“Millicent Bagnold,” she said brusquely, putting a hand out. “Formerly Auror, First Class, but since that shakeup last year, now Head of the Hit Wizards. And running for Minister.”

His immediate reaction was that she was uncharismatic to be running for office, but then again they were at war, in a sort of underground way. “A pleasure.” He took her hand. “Regulus Black, to be confirmed Earl of Huntingdon.”

Her eyebrows came up sharply. “Oh. I did hear about your father—a shame.”

He gave her credit for managing to look regretful for his father’s death when two of her Aurors had died in the same fight. “Accidents happen,” he said mildly. “Running for Minister from the Hit Wizards is a bit of a risk, isn’t it?” An unsubtle topic change, but he suspected—

“There are two respectable routes for Head Auror,” Bagnold said, looking as though this was the only thing people ever talked to her on, “and one is through gaining leadership experience in the Hit Wizards.”

Regulus nodded. “Beg your pardon then, but I thought you said you were running for Minister for Magic.”

She smiled very thinly. “This is a time of crisis, Earl Huntingdon, and it is becoming obvious that Minister Minchum’s tactics simply cannot contain the violence of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

Regulus decided not to correct her on the title and, in a fit of pique, imagined showing her his arm. “Absolutely. I only meant that generally the common voter is looking for administrative experience in his choice for Minister.” The common voter being, of course, Ministry employees. Anyone not working for the Ministry was considered to have very little relevance to the question of Minister.

“I think the common voter right now would like a little less tradition and a little more success,” Bagnold said snippily.

Regulus found himself faced with an unexpected decision: On the one hand, he generally went through life trying to make everyone like him. On the other hand, all of the Dukes of Exeter were known for being political eccentrics and he didn’t know that it would be wise to play nice with someone—he gave her a once-over—who really had very little chance of actually winning the election. “I think the only decision to have had any effect recently is Head Crouch’s decision to allow the Unforgivables in battle.”

The Aurors against the wall looked pleased. Bagnold did not. Was Crouch running as well? It seemed unlikely, coming so soon after his promotion to head of Law Enforcement, but at the same time, it did give him a good position to campaign from. He would have to ask Barty.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr Black,” she said crisply and turned away.

Things were awkward after that and Bagnold refused to look at him. He spent the whole time trying not to fidget or apologize to her, and mostly settled for crossing his legs and staring at the ceiling.

Finally the door opened and a third Auror stuck her head in. “Lord Huntingdon? They’re ready for you.”

Regulus stood and fussed at his robes, although they were the formal set charmed to fall without wrinkles, jet black with grey trim and the family crest on his right chest, with a silver chain holding his outer robe closed, and a black belt with silver trim around his house robe. He looked the ideal of a pureblood noble, and he knew it. He nodded politely at the Aurors and stepped into the Wizengamot chamber.

He had been in a few times as a visitor with his father—it was different as the subject. This was, first and foremost, a room for trials and debates: Benches rose along three walls, leaving the floor open. The defendant’s chair was present but empty. He stepped forward and stood next to it, resting one hand on its back.

From the centre of the back wall, Albus Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, stared down at him. “The Wizengamot recognizes Lord Regulus Black.”

Regulus became suddenly, acutely aware of how much attention was focused on him. “Thank you, Chief Warlock,” he said, and swallowed hard. “And honoured members of the Wizengamot.”

He could hear Grandfather Arcturus drilling him: _They’re members, not lords. Most are noble, but each minister can nominate five life peers and those aren’t en_ _n_ _obled just by joining. Members. Not lords. Don’t flatter any who hasn’t earned it._

Dumbledore nodded at him, and Regulus thought that despite the war, despite his tattoo and Dumbledore’s order, in this room, at this moment, Dumbledore might actually want him to succeed.

“I, Regulus Arcturus Black, do present myself to this Wizengamot, as the oldest male descendant of the Duke of Exeter, Arcturus Sirius Black. As such, I am entitled to the courtesy title of Earl of Huntingdon and any privileges,” he choked, had to pause and clear his throat. Nobody else moved. “Any privileges thereof that the Duke of Exeter may relinquish to that title. I additionally petition the Wizengamot to recognize my right to succession to the Duchy of Exeter.” There. Only one stumble.

“As Chief Warlock of this Wizengamot, does any here decry Regulus Black’s right to those positions?”

Regulus fisted his hands and tried not to look at anyone who might know Sirius.

Someone stood, and Regulus wanted very badly to crawl under a chair.

“Lord Abbott, you have a concern?” Dumbledore said, tone light.

Lord Geoffrey Abbott nodded. “Regulus Black, you say you are the oldest male descendant. What of Sirius Black?”

Regulus tried to remind himself that this was expected, that of course they were wondering why Sirius wasn’t standing here. It didn’t help. “Sirius was disowned and is no longer in the line of inheritance,” he said flatly.

“Disowned for what?” Lord Abbott said.

Regulus blinked. Was he getting put up to this by Dumbledore? Why did it matter? “Internal family affairs,” he said, and hoped it would be enough.

Grandfather Arcturus stood, and Regulus really just wanted to go home. “Chief Warlock, the line of inheritance is a family matter, not one for public debate. Sirius was judged unfit and, seeing as he is not here today, he seems to agree with that conclusion.”

Lord Abbott looked disgruntled. “I only wished to be sure that Sirius would not cause conflict over the matter,” he said, but sat back down.

Regulus could’ve told him that Sirius started conflicts at the drop of a hat and didn’t need a reason, but Grandfather Arcturus was also sitting.

Dumbledore nodded. “Thank you, Lord Abbott. If there are no other concerns?” Nobody moved. Regulus tried not to sigh. “Then, as Chief Warlock, I recognize you, Regulus Arcturus Black, as courtesy Earl of Huntingdon and the rightful heir to the Duchy of Exeter.”

He slumped noticeably, knowing he would catch hell for it later, but couldn’t bring himself to care now. It was done.


	9. The Spy (4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Well, it is June. April was a pretty awful month for writing, May I got back on track, and now I have a much better buffer. I plan to post every other Monday, so next chapter is up 9 July.
> 
> No specific triggers for this chapter—which is weird. Next one should fix that!
> 
> Thanks to my betas: Elizabethdove, for helping with Catholicism and a lot of historical shenanigans this month, noaacat, for telling me when scenes need to be rewritten and being right every time, and charamei, for stepping in to pinch hit (pinch beta?) since noaacat is about to be occupied with things like "moving" and "their own writing".

 

December was always, always dedicated to Christmas, and December of 1979 was no different. There were parties to go to, hosted by the Lestranges and the Malfoys and the multiple Black branches. There was decorating to assist with, as not everything could be done by the house elves, and God forbid his mother do her own work. There were functions to attend in the Ministry, on all levels; Arcturus was sending him to anything that didn't strictly require the Duke of Exeter, which turned out to cover a Ministry function every week. And then there were the traditional markers of the holiday season—the Feast of the Conception of Mary, Advent, Christmas itself, the feast day for Saint John, and finally Epiphany services—that he could not be allowed to miss, especially not this year when he was the heir to the Black family.

This was, of course, on top of continued daily lessons with Arcturus, weekly Death Eater meetings, irregular individual sessions with the Dark Lord as they began to plan what he would and would not be able to do as a spy among Dumbledore's rank—sessions where they spoke informally and in private, sessions where it was harder to remember that the Dark Lord might be charming, he might be brilliant, but this man had split his soul and doomed himself—and new meetings with a legal accountant to determine what he could and could not do with his new properties and accounts.

In the end, Regulus was nearly as busy as he had been in school, although now he had far more secrets: Secrets from the Dark Lord, secrets from his mother, secrets from Arcturus, secrets from the Ministry. Secrets from everyone—except Kreacher—because no one else knew that the Horcrux was in a box under a tile in the kitchen.

The week of Christmas took Regulus to Teignbridge, where he would remain until Epiphany. Walburga came too, which was unfortunate, but his rooms were now two down from Arcturus, and hers were still in the south wing, so it was easy enough to avoid her.

Despite this, shortly after Christmas she caught him in a dining room and threw crockery at his head along with accusations of treachery. There wasn't much he could say or do—even if he was faster with a wand, she would still make him pay somehow—so he tried to protect his eyes and waited her out. When she finally collapsed, sobbing, he crept away, sick to his stomach. She wasn't wrong, not really. He was betraying the Blacks, even if he was also trying to save them.

Immediately after Epiphany service, Narcissa announced her pregnancy, and Regulus took the opportunity to leave for Grimmauld Place. He hadn't heard anything from Dorea or Cassiopeia, which wasn't unusual as neither of them regularly attended family gatherings, but it did mean he had no idea if Sirius was going to show up. He probably would—Sirius had never been able to resist a vaguely worded challenge—but Regulus wasn't quite sure and it was making him twitch.

At any rate, he had better show up just in case, because it  _would_ be just like Sirius to show up in disguise and leave if Regulus wasn't obviously present. Grumbling, he dressed himself in his only Muggle outfit, which had been acquired for the sole purpose of following Severus around, and walked to the café.

When he was younger, before Sirius started Hogwarts, Walburga had started letting them leave Grimmauld. They weren't allowed to play in the house, so Sirius had found spots where they could go without getting in trouble. The closest one had been a corner café just a few blocks away, a slightly rundown place with just enough regulars to keep it going. They had charmed the owner, Owen, without needing magic, just a pair of well-dressed boys whose mother didn't want them hanging around and who didn't cause much fuss.

That had lasted until Sirius started Hogwarts, and then Regulus had kept coming on his own, never quite offering to help out but desperate for attention and handier with maths than Owen. He hadn't been back since third year, when he was first allowed to Floo to Diagon on his own.

Now he found a table and slouched at it, vaguely uncomfortable in tight trousers. Traditional wizarding dress involved no trousers, just layers of robes. He looked around and didn't draw his wand only because of the presence of Muggles. After a minute, he went up and ordered a cup of tea and a scone; then he sat down, shredded the scone and let the tea go cold.

By the time the tea was room temperature, he thought to check a clock and found it was well after noon, and no sign of Sirius. He spent another few minutes staring at the teacup and folding the scone crumbs in a napkin, and then it was almost one. Scowling, he walked back to Grimmauld and spent the afternoon sitting in front of a fire.

* * *

In the morning, there was a letter.

_Reg,_

_What do you want??_

He knew his brother's handwriting. It hadn't changed much since they were young: Still jagged and sloppy with splattered ink where he went to cross the t's. He turned the piece of parchment over and wrote on the back:

_A face to face meeting. About loyalties. Hunden Close, tomorrow, noon._

There was absolutely no need to sign it. He attached it to the owl and sent it off.

* * *

Hunden Close was his cottage in Northumberland, and it was—easy wasn't the right word—possible to come up with a reason that he needed to go inspect it, alone, the following day. Walburga was still monitoring his every motion, even though he was an adult and had his NEWTs, but she did accept that he needed to go check the charmswork on the cottage and was uninterested in following.

The cottage was small, almost cramped: only two bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen. He sat down at the kitchen table to wait—the same table where Sirius had once unleashed a small army of toads. He had screamed for that, but they had laughed together first.

Shortly after noon, there was a knock on the door. Odd, thought Regulus, because Sirius had never knocked in his life. Maybe it wasn't Sirius? But who else could it be?

 _Potter_ , probably, or maybe even Evans. Evans seemed likely to knock rather than just barging in, although he hadn't thought that Sirius would chicken out again. Maybe he was with Evans. Maybe.

He drew his wand anyway, just to be safe, and stood to open the door.

Professor Dumbledore stood there, in turquoise sequined robes and a curious expression. "Good day, Mr Black. May I come in?"

Regulus let him in and started tea before really processing what was going on. Instead of showing up himself, his brother had delegated the Hogwarts Headmaster and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. Eventually putting two cups of tea on the table, he sat down across from Dumbledore. "Um."

"Sirius and I talked, and we felt I should take this meeting, all things considered."

Which things was he considering? Because Regulus felt like his heart was going to leap out of his chest. Talking to Sirius about this would have been bad enough. He had  _never_ had a private conversation with Dumbledore, and was perfectly happy with that. "Of course, sir."

There was an awkward pause. Dumbledore seemed perfectly content to watch him over his spectacles, and take the occasional sip of tea.

Regulus broke first. "I want to join you."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows, but only slightly. He must have seen the letter Regulus sent Sirius, or otherwise Sirius told him. "It is not often I get applicants from the Death Eaters. I trust you have an appropriate explanation."

There was really no point in asking how he knew. Regulus had tried to be discreet at Hogwarts, but teenagers simply weren't very subtle, and it had been all-but printed in the papers when his father died. "I have come to realize that my brother is right," he said, squashing the automatic revulsion that came with admitting that Sirius was right about anything.

"A conclusion I wish many people would come to," Dumbledore said blandly. "Sirius has a good understanding of many issues. But how did you come to change your mind?"

Merlin, why had he thought this was going to be a good idea? He wanted to crawl under the table and vanish. "I wanted to—I want to live. Past the war." It was true, the advantage was it was true, and even if he was eliding the whole—

He met Dumbledore's stiff blue eyes.

"He won't let me do that. We will lose. I don't want to..." The words spilled out involuntarily and he only just managed to clamp his lips around the last whiny confession.

"This sounds," Dumbledore said, "less like choosing the right moral side, and more like a rat fleeing a sinking ship."

So what if it was? He was a Slytherin for a reason. "Not all reasons are glamorous. If you wish to turn me away, so be it." He would find some other way to bring down the Dark Lord.

Dumbledore was silent for a moment, before nodding. "You must realize that I cannot take this at face value."

"Of course." He would've thought less of Dumbledore if he  _had_ just taken Regulus at his word. "I want to—You have to understand, I can't be seen to leave. They'll kill me. It's going to have to be a secret."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "That would be convenient for you. What difference did you think there would be, between your behavior prior to now and your behavior in the future?"

He blinked, and shifted a little on his seat. "Well. I would provide information." He supposed. He wanted to bring down the Dark Lord, yes, and he had to work with Dumbledore to do that, or at least that was the most likely scenario at any rate. But he didn't want to die—really didn't, dying would mean he couldn't do anything about the Dark Lord and that he couldn't watch the Dark Lord die, piece by severed piece—so it had to be,  _had_  to be, a secret. But of course, Dumbledore had a point: What was he really doing about it? Telling people things they couldn't otherwise have known, in order to put them places where someone would get killed or arrested for supporting the wrong cause, so that the Dark Lord could be alone and without support at the end. "I would spy for you."

The room was a little colder and darker, and he didn't quite know why. "Such a thing would require an exceptional amount of trust," Dumbledore said seriously.

"I know, sir." He couldn't meet Dumbledore's gaze. "I'm willing to provide proof. Evidence. Dates and times of raids. Whatever."

The tension relaxed again. "Thank you, but I meant on your part. You will need to trust me, beyond all reason."

His stomach turned over. He wasn't quite sure what, in particular, Dumbledore meant, but he didn't think he would like it. "Yes, sir."

"Look at me."

Regulus braced for pain and met his eyes.

There was no change, and then he was surrounded by the magic, ice blue and still. It picked over his thoughts, his hates, his fears. There was a push towards an upstairs bedroom and he shoved back—the shove passed through the ice without notice, but the ice retreated of its own accord. Then he was full of water, not ice but liquid, cold and green-dark and deadly. Without warning, the ice was gone again.

Regulus blinked ferociously and looked away.

"Thank you for that." It sounded sincere. Regulus wanted to crawl under the table and vomit. "I will not bring you into the Order of the Phoenix. Not yet."

He really, really hadn't expected that.  _Not yet?_  There might be a place for him, next to his brother? "Of course." God, this was moving too fast. He felt like digging his nails in and screaming,  _stop_. He couldn't be betraying his family, his past like this. Could he?

"There must, however, still be proof. Something that I can verify."

It felt like he was falling. He was really doing this; he was going to double-cross the Dark Lord, with the Dark Lord's  _permission_ ; he was abandoning the cause his family stood for to work with the polar opposite, the Mudblood's protector. "I'm—I'll say—" He scrabbled for something to hold onto. "I won't give names," he said finally, more firmly than he thought he was capable of. He was willing to give away the times of raids and let the dice fall where they may, but many of the Death Eaters were married. Some had children. They weren't involved in the fighting; they didn't deserve to have the Aurors show up at their door after dark.

All Dumbledore did was lean forward slightly, but the cottage felt smaller and older, more like it had when their father had caught Sirius with Muggle clothing, too full of someone else's hostile power to leave Regulus room enough to breathe. "The reality is, many people will think you were sent so that Voldemort would have someone close to Sirius."

His Mark hurt at the name. He ignored it. Dumbledore was right, and he should've thought of it himself. Sirius was on every Death Eater's list: The one who had gotten away and, worse, the one who knew all their names and families and homes, and who seemed to have no hesitation about handing all that information over to Dumbledore. "I don't know all the raids," he said, instead of a denial, which wouldn't be believed. "The Inner Circle members have their own teams, and often they don't even tell the—himself, you know—Merlin." Regulus stuttered to a halt.

"Voldemort," Dumbledore said again.

This time he did put his hand over the Mark. "Him. They don't tell him until they're done. But..." He steeled himself. "I do know one. Some people can't keep their mouths shut." Himself, for instance. But Evan Rosier was also chattier than one might expect: He boasted about his assignments and was cocky, too. It would catch up to him someday, everyone said, before being reminded that Evan was second or third most dangerous in the Death Eaters. "They're going to visit Liverpool in two days. They know about a Mud—a Muggle-born there, and her family."

Now Dumbledore was interested, and the pressure shifted, less crushing and more constrained. "Karen Wilson."

He hadn't known her name. He didn't want to, honestly, it just was one more thing to have rattling around in his head. "If she's a Muggle-born in Liverpool, then yes. The way they talked, she's probably below fifth year." Evan was a creep, but he had limits, and at least his creeping was limited to words. There were plenty of Death Eaters—although not many in the Inner Circle—who wouldn't be stopped by a matter of age or blood.

"Third year," Dumbledore said, and oh God, this was really happening. But if it worked, if it got Evan caught, he would deal with the fear and stress, he would put up with it. Because Evan could hold off three Aurors at once, and that was three Aurors who weren't fighting the Dark Lord.

"He'll have…" He thought about Evan, about Evan's speed and creativity, about Evan's confidence. "No more than three others with him. I think there are fifteen in the team, or thereabouts, but not all come every time, and if more do come they'll be spread out."

Dumbledore had pulled a quill from somewhere and was writing on a slip of parchment. "Up to fifteen Death Eaters in Liverpool on Tuesday. The primary push will be on Karen Wilson, but the rest may be anywhere in the city."

"Or nowhere at all," Regulus said sickly. He… didn't particularly like Evan. He'd certainly laughed when Evan had leered at Narcissa and she had cursed his nose backwards, but also Evan had stood between him and a trio of Gryffindor seventh years, back before any of them had even met the Dark Lord. That meant something, and it had been Evan and Lucius who had held him after he took the Mark. But there was a difference between not liking a fellow, and sending the Order of the Phoenix after them.

But if Evan died, there was no one really ready to take over his cell...

"If your information is correct, I will put you in contact with a handler you can report to. Future meetings between us had best be few and short, I think."

Regulus nodded, suppressing his guilt and fear. There was no point in it now. "Who?"

"Someone in the Ministry," Dumbledore said, confirming several of the Dark Lord's theories. "Pureblood, noble, from your own class. I have some thoughts, but I need to ask their permission first."

"Of course." Who would it be, though? There weren't that many blood traitors in the nobility to begin with, and surely he wouldn't be sent to someone like the Prewetts, who were young and chatty—and terrifying.

Dumbledore stood. "I will be in touch. Await my owl."

Heart in his throat, Regulus blurted out, "I'll have to tell him something. He gave me permission to spy, but he expects information."

For a brief moment, Dumbledore looked surprised. "I must admit, I did not expect Voldemort to know."

Someday, if they kept having conversations like this, Regulus would tell him what happened every time he said that name. "He's smarter than most give him credit for. He'd find out anyway. And then—" He didn't need to say it. "So I convinced him I would be spying for him."

Those blue eyes looked at him, and if Dumbledore was using Legilimency, Regulus couldn't tell. "Incredible trust requires incredible truths, Mr Black."

"I know." He stood, hands behind his back. "Thank you, sir. For giving me this chance."

Dumbledore looked at him over his eyeglasses. "Do not waste it, Regulus. Second chances are one thing: thirds are quite another." And with that, he was gone.

* * *

Over the next week, Regulus met with Narcissa, who was pregnant, Arcturus, who was jovial, the Dark Lord, who was plotting, Edmund, who was bored and wanted to know what Regulus had been reading, his mother, who was bitter, and four separate Knockturn Alley merchants, who wanted alternately to buy and sell illegal artifacts to the latest scion of the Blacks. Evan's raid didn't result in a dead Mudblood, but to Regulus's mixed disappointment and relief, it hadn't resulted in Evan's arrest either. There had been a scuffle in Liverpool and some new recruit had been arrested; that was all.

Precisely one week after Dumbledore's visit, a barn owl delivered a letter to Grimmauld Place. It consisted entirely of a name in flowing, loopy script.

 _Amelia Bones_.

* * *

The Boneses were one of the oldest families in wizarding Britain, although their frequent habit of marrying Muggleborns had left them off the Sacred Twenty-Eight. As Earls of Hereford, they had long been a respected and influential part of wizarding politics. Amelia Bones was the Head Auror and Earl of Hereford in her own right, not known as a skilled duellist per se, but rather a vicious and imaginative user of wards, traps, and potions. The Death Eaters had so far given her a wide berth, but Regulus suspected that was about to end.

Armed with knowledge of a raid in Derbyshire, Regulus Apparated to the Ministry. The receptionist took his wand, looked at him, dropped the wand, and managed to stammer, "My ap-pologies, Lord Huntingdon." He handed the wand back over, hand shaking.

Regulus took it without comment. Most wizards were intimidated by nobility.

Thus unannounced, he made his way down to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and to the office of the Head Auror.

There was a small queue already there. Regulus stood near it, close enough that he could conceivably be considered part of the queue, but far enough away that in the event Bones chose him next, it wouldn't be seen as queue-jumping.

It didn't take long for Bones to come out, escorting a short ragged-looking man. "That's very nice, Mr Fletcher, but still theft. Yes," she said over an attempted protest, "it is a Dark object and I am pleased you chose to turn it in rather than reselling it but all else being equal, you really should have left it where you found it."

The man, Fletcher presumably, opened his mouth, but was overridden by Bones. "Now get out before I'm tempted to write you up for it." She looked at the queue, frowning when she got to Regulus. "Lord Huntingdon, my office is by appointment only."

Regulus gave her a winning smile, bowing. "Is it possible to make an appointment? Preferably for today."

Bones gave him a stern look. "Five pm. If you're late, I go home."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, only lightly mocking. It would be Bones, who took the letter of the law more strictly than anyone Regulus had ever known. Why did Dumbledore think she was a good contact for a spy?

She turned away and beckoned the next person into her office. Before she stepped in, she said, "Someone keep an eye on him." The door shut behind her.

Regulus sighed. Letter of the law or no, she was at least not kicking him out.

"Lord Huntingdon," a deep voice said. "Come with me please."

He spun on his heel, hand snapping to his wand holster. He hated people coming up behind him; they always made him jumpy. After a moment he forced himself to take a deep breath and relax, because the man behind him was in tan Auror trainee robes and his hands were empty.

" _Kingsley_!"

Kingsley Shacklebolt grinned, his hair shorter than it had been in school. "Come on. I've got a desk."

Regulus followed numbly. He hadn't seen Kings since the end of their NEWTs—presumably his summer and fall had gone better than Regulus's had.

Kingsley's cubicle was very close to the middle of the room and right next to Moody's. Like most of them, it was made of low walls with a desk and a chair. As a trainee, Kingsley had covered his cubicle with jerky diagrams of attacks and counters.

Regulus eyed the neighbouring desk contemplatively. "Do you think he keeps anything in there?"

Kingsley tapped his shoulder and conjured a second chair. "Sit, and eyes to yourself unless you want a very different interview with the chief."

He sat, stretching out his legs. "Auror trainee?" He knew Kingsley had gotten the offer, conditional on passing his NEWTS—he had boasted about it in the common room and then hexed Canute Jugson's ears for laughing. But that was very different from sitting here in the Auror offices, both of them knowing that they were a few orders away from facing each other on the battlefield.

With a couple of flicks, Kingsley put up an Unnoticeable Charm. "Death Eater trainee?"

Regulus sobered, leaning forward. "You knew this was coming."

"I did." It had been obvious to all of the sixth year Slytherins when Regulus vanished over Easter hols, only to turn up to the first day of classes still pale and shaking. "I didn't like it then, and I don't like it now, so I can only hope…"

Regulus stared at the ceiling. Why did things have to be so complicated? It would be easier if Kings didn't care about him. "I am here for a reason," he said, hoping that was suitably vague.

Kingsley gave him one of those uncanny piercing stares. It had to be something they looked for in Auror trainees, because he'd always been the only one in their year able to do it. "Perhaps not such a trainee, then."

"Certainly not a trainee," Regulus said, ignoring that he hadn't actually been on any raids. Impulsively—because Kings had been his roommate, because they'd known each other for seven years going on fifty, because Kinglsey had never told anyone what was on Regulus's arm even though he'd seen it in the showers—he told Kingsley what he was waiting for. "And even my arm...it doesn't guarantee loyalty."

A smile slipped over Kingsley's face. "Loyalty's a speciality of the chief's. Should be a fun meeting with her."

Regulus smiled in return. "I look forward to it, then."

Issue settled, Kingsley pulled a deck of cards out. "Exploding Snap?"

Hours later, with Regulus winning five to three, Moody came over. He squinted at both of them. "Shacklebolt, quit faffing about on duty."

Kings rolled his eyes and carefully swept the cards back into his pocket.

"Huntingdon." Moody's gaze was locked on him. "She's ready for you. You'd best hope she's interested in why you're here.  _I_ certainly am."

Regulus tried not to hunch his shoulders. Moody had arrested Corban Yaxley last year, and although Yaxley had been able to talk his way into an innocent verdict, he'd said that Moody wasn't afraid to fight rough—and from Yaxley, that meant Dark and nasty. At the same time, Moody was unquestionably opposed to the Dark Lord, and it wasn't any secret where Regulus's loyalties lay. Had lain. "Yes, sir," he said, stepping away from Kingsley's desk.

Moody grunted and walked him to Bones' office. At the door, he gave Regulus a disapproving stare before heading off.

Regulus slipped inside.

Amelia Bones kept a clean office, walls lined with filing cabinets, only one inbox sitting on the desk. In contrast, her rubbish bin was overflowing. She was a young witch for her position, not yet forty, having climbed there through ruthlessness both on the battlefield and in the office.

Regulus knew the Boneses sorted Hufflepuff. What he didn't know, however, was  _why_.

Bones looked at him and sighed. "Have a seat, Black."

"Done with formalities?" he asked easily, sitting in the wooden chair on the other side of her desk. Bones didn't seem the sort to stand on ceremony; Hufflepuffs generally didn't, even when they had the right to. He needed her to like him, and outside of Slytherin, that meant not making a point of his titles.

She drummed her fingers on the desk, looking like she had to contain a sharp retort. Aurors were seeing combat weekly, he reminded himself, so the Auror Head was no doubt under pressure. "You wanted this meeting during business hours."

He'd wanted this meeting  _at all_ , as soon as possible really, and that meant business hours, but he didn't want to appear desperate. Even if he was. "Yes, ma'am. I didn't want to raise suspicion—given who I am."  _Given who you are._

Bones made an agreeable noise. "I want to hear your defection. In your own words."

Jesus, Mary and Joseph. He was perfectly happy to slide around the issue and let the reality be something that others worked out for themselves. And why in Merlin's name had Dumbledore sent him to  _her_? Why hadn't Dumbledore said what they had talked about? Why was he turning spy at all, in the first place? It would be much simpler just to go home and continue being the Dark Lord's social adviser. "I could lie," he said, instead of saying any of the things that were really going through his mind.

Bones did not look amused. "To me, maybe. To Albus?" She let that hang for a moment. "I want to  _hear_  it." Of course she did. Damned Hufflepuffs.

He didn't want to say it, though, and he was beginning to appreciate Legilimency as a method of communicating information. "I plan to oppose the Dark Lord," he said in a rush, speaking before he could think things through. "But without dying. So not openly, but in secret, but I want him—" The word  _dead_  wouldn't come out. "Ended. Gone. Anything else—blood, politics—comes— must come second."

To his surprise, Bones was smiling and nodding. "Exactly. I understand there are things you are not willing to tell us."

 _What_? Why couldn't they go back to speaking obliquely? If Bones insisted on saying everything straight out, it would drive him mad. "Names, mostly. Unless you already have them, I guess. Otherwise… as much as I can, without putting myself in danger."

"Any  _more_  in danger," Bones corrected, but it seemed gentle. "Did you think that spying would be safe?"

He pulled at a loose thread on his sleeve. "I have a cover. As long as I can give him information, I should be fine."

She leaned forward, hitting the desk with one hand. " _Regulus_. What about others?"

He flinched. "What?" The only people who could kill him and get away with it, the only ones who scared him, were Arcturus and the Dark Lord. Others? What others.

Bones was frowning at him now, and drumming her fingers. "Everyone else.  _Think_. You may have convinced You-Know-Who, and you're certainly busy convincing Albus and I, but what about the public? What about the average Death Eater? What about, God forbid, any Auror who catches you? What explanation do you have for  _them_?"

He blinked, chest cold. "I hadn't thought of that," he said, feeling very young. He could say he was getting close to Sirius, sure, but to what purpose? Especially as time went on and Sirius kept, he hoped, not dying; he would look very ineffective and he didn't think that, even if  _accurate_ , was quite the image he wanted to project. And then, if he socialized with both sides, as he would have to to gather information, there was sure to be some idiot who thought that Regulus was involved in too much and needed to be silenced.

She relaxed, very slightly. "That is your first assignment then, as spy. You will need convincing explanations for any who ask what you are doing and who you are. You will also report to me, by owl, once a week, and in person any time after you see You-Know-Who."

"That's almost every Thursday," said Regulus. "But it's not like I'm doing anything, what with being out of school and all." Well. He was busy, he was occupied, there was always something for him to  _do_ , but there was no reason he couldn't pop over to the Ministry once a week to speak with Bones.

There was a slightly awkward pause. "You are that high up?" She gave him an odd look. "What  _is_  the Death Eater organization?"

He hesitated. "You don't know?" he asked, before realizing that he was equally unaware of how Dumbledore's order was set up. "Pardon. The Death Eaters—two groups. Well, two with the mark. Most of his supporters don't have it, they don't deserve it. It's a sign of your value to him. I think there's about forty of us, maybe fifty. Not more than that. And those that have it, they're either cell leaders, or resources."

Bones had pulled parchment and quill from her desk and was writing quickly. "Continue."

"Cells—if you're not marked, you're in a cell. They're not told the names of anyone but the cell leader. They don't come to most meetings, we—those with marks—we're not supposed to let them see our faces but…" But it was a fun game, he couldn't say, to show these fools, these halfbloods and partbreeds and foreigners and impoverished purebloods, who exactly they were following and scare them into staying silent. Bones might think he was an asset to the cause, or whatever Hufflepuff phrasing she used, but how quickly would she abandon him if she knew that he and Edmund Nott had gone out with Evan Rosier's cell one evening and left their masks off until it was really too late to let the Muggles go alive? And then, of course, he and Ed and Evan had sat down with Evan's recruits and had a few words with them, not much magic really, just to make sure everyone was clear that while the public knew which side the  _families_  were on, individual names were not to come up, or Evan would know who had said it. Evan had demonstrated the consequences on one of the newer and shabbier recruits and that had been that.

Bones had a funny sort of look on her face. "How many of you are there?"

Maths was one of Regulus's strong suits, but he had to think for a moment anyway, to decide how many of the cells were full. "No more than five hundred—I think more like four fifty? Thirty five cell leaders, no more than fifteen to a cell, but not everyone has as many recruits as they want, and He hasn't told me how many Death Eaters aren't cell leaders." Himself for one and Severus for another, but they weren't the only two.

She had gone very pale. "Five  _hundred_?"

Regulus felt like he was falling—no, like he  _had_  been falling and was now abruptly brought back to earth. "What did you think you were fighting?" He didn't much like the Dark Lord anymore, but that didn't mean he was going to underestimate him. The Dark Lord was a nasty, canny wizard who wouldn't fight if he could get someone else to do it for him—so he had.

Bones put her hands flat on the desk and took several deep breaths. "It will be interesting working with you, Black. But yes. I do want to see you every time you see You-Know-Who, or an owl once a week. A discreet one, please, I have experience with Black family owls."

Regulus could only imagine. "A new one, then."

"Very well. And if you are ever in more danger than you can handle—"she gave him a distinctly McGonagall-esque look—"come here and I will stand by you."

Something small and warm sat in his chest, but mostly Regulus was pretty sure that she would take that back in the event anything  _did_  happen, because it would probably mean he had gotten caught doing something that she would disapprove of. Without acknowledging that, then, he said, "There's a raid outside Nottingham tomorrow night. No targets, just looking to cause a ruckus."

She tilted her head slightly. "Out of those five hundred, how many are bored young wizards just out of Hogwarts?"

He froze, thinking, and then laughed at how right she was. "Just out, no more than a handful, and most of them didn't attend Hogwarts. But bored and young is probably almost half."

Her lips curled up. "I think that will be all for today, Black. I look forward to your owl."

He stood and bowed. "Lady Hereford. It is an honour." Without further ado, he left the Ministry.


	10. The Web (1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On time this week! Next chapter on 23 July.
> 
> TWs: Death Eaters doing Death Eater things off screen, assassination/murder, canon typical racism, period typical sexism, etc.
> 
> Thanks as always to Elizabethdove, noaacat, and charamei

If there was a Death Eater meeting that Thursday, Regulus wasn’t summoned to it, but he did invite Lorette Wilkes and Edmund Nott out to lunch, where they had an extensive conversation under a Muffling Charm about what it was like to no longer be in school and thus available to the Dark Lord. None of them liked it very much, although Lorette had the least excuse, being the only one to have rented her own flat and gotten out of her parents’ house.

Edmund said he liked the regular schedule—meetings on Thursdays, raids on Fridays or Saturdays—but would like it more if it came with less pain and a little more action. Lorette was complaining at length about the restricted opportunities for dating among the Death Eaters: at Hogwarts she had been free to pursue anyone who held still long enough, but now that they were graduated her father expected her to marry well, which meant pureblood gentry at least. This was, according to her, ruining her social life and any hopes of imitating Voisin Zabini, who had been through three husbands and three fortunes, and someone was going to suffer for it.

Regulus moved his chair two inches away from Lorette and mentioned something about family.

They all took a drink.

They were meeting in Vertic Alley, which was two blocks east of Diagon Alley and considerably more upscale. Regulus left an extra Galleon on the table as a tip and made sure to smile at the server, just in case. Walburga had always told him not to tip the servers or pay them any attention, but he wanted to stand out a little now. Show the wizarding world that he wasn't the Death Eater brat, but a polite young man who should be trusted.

"That was kind of you," Edmund said as they left. "Are you feeling well?"

He shrugged and twitched his cloak so it hung more neatly. "We cannot  _all_ be hated by the populace." Regulus smiled, a little falsely, a little sadly. "Himself needs a few of us to be popular so that when we..." He trailed off, and Edmund nodded and waved a hand. "Yes, well, if the common wizard hates us, what have we bought but more fighting and more deaths? That might make Bellatrix happy, but you or I? So I will ingratiate myself with the Ministry and with the witch on the street, and if it means a few Galleons here or there, or a lie or two, well, it won't be the worst thing I've done."

For a moment Edmund and Lorette stared at him, and he wondered if he'd gone too far. He had thought this through after the meeting with Bones; he'd spent the evening coming up with lies and almost truths, misdirections and the rare, full piece of honesty. It had to work, it had to, he had to have a way to be himself and to see his friends, and still serve the war—all sides of it.

"He'll strike me down for this, but that sounds too clever to be himself," Lorette said in an undertone. "This wasn't  _your_  plan, Reg?"

Edmund was frowning and hunched his shoulders to block the crowd. "It was like him in the old days, according to Father. It would have been like him to think for after the war. But that was then."

Regulus ducked his head so no one could read his lips. "It was a joint effort."

"Well," said Lorette. "You keep things interesting. Owl me if there's ever anything  _really_ delightful."

Somehow, Regulus didn't think that Bones would think Lorette Wilkes, who had once jinxed Bedivere Culhwch so he couldn't write the letter  _e_  just to see if it could be done, was an acceptable person to bring into the Order of the Phoenix. "I will," he said anyway.

" _Don't_  owl me." Edmund rolled his eyes. "You're going to get caught up with your idiot brother again, aren't you, and  _then_ you'll get it from himself. Even if you've convinced him right now."

Regulus straightened so sharply his spine cracked, because the intention was to make his friends think he was spying  _on_ the Order and the Ministry. Not  _for_  them! "Absolutely  _not._ He's dead to us, you know that."

"Whatever you say, Black." Lorette was smirking and he didn't believe a word of it.

* * *

After leaving them, he went to Diagon and bought the plainest, quietest short-eared owl in the store. Nyctimene went off that night with a letter to Bones about the conversation and a few notes of his own thoughts—mostly that a surprising number of Death Eaters, at least the ones around his age, were feeling disillusioned with how much hiding and petty torture they were doing. The nobles in particular were expecting more upheaval and revolution. He went to lessons with Arcturus, and explained that he had to make sure to stay in favor with the Wizengamot, since his courtesy title could always be revoked. He went to meetings with other Death Eaters, his age and a little older, and explained that the public was easily gullible and there had to be someone doing the gulling. He avoided, at all costs, his mother, and spent much of his time at Grimmauld coming up with new and inventive places to hide the Horcrux.

On Wednesday, Nyctimene came back with a short note:  _More analysis if you won’t give me names. AB._

Thursday he went to Teignbridge for lessons only to find Grandfather Arcturus in a towering rage.

“Read this,” his grandfather snapped, shoving a letter at him.

_To His Grace, the Duke of Exeter, Libro Safran sends greetings._

_I regret to inform you of the passing of Cassiopeia Black. I have a standing arrangement with her for book repairs, and was visiting this morning to pick one up. There is no gentle way to say this: Her body was in her sitting room with the Dark Mark over it. Forgive me, but it had been there for several days. I alerted the Aurors but wished to be sure you were told. If there is anything more I can do in this trying time, please, let me know._

_Sincere condolences,_

_Libro Safran, M.Phil._

He didn't know Safran by name, but Aunt Cassiopeia had— _had_ had—an eclectic collection of friends and clients, and anyway, that wasn't important. He had to sit down shakily in a chair. “Aunt Cassiopeia.”

Arcturus gestured violently with his wand, spraying red sparks across the room. “Your little— _band_ —secret society—killed! A  _Black_!” He spun on his heel, glaring down at Regulus. “You are going to go to that jumped up lord, and you will tell him that Blacks take care of their own, you understand? He is going to leave my family  _alone_!”

Cassiopeia had been the one to point him in the right direction on the Horcrux. Was that why she was dead? Had the Dark Lord found out what he had done? Fingers tightly clenched on his robe, trying to remember if anything could have tipped off the Dark Lord, Regulus didn’t pay attention to his grandfather.

That turned out to be a mistake. “He’ll regret this. Killing a  _Black_. Without a word to me! Where is he staying?”

“What?” Oh God, he wasn’t going to live long enough for the Dark Lord to kill him over the Horcrux. “No, grandfather—that’s not going to—” Arcturus was a talented wizard, sure, but not in the same league as the Dark Lord. “Sir, please, let me handle it,” he said, before his mind could catch up with his mouth.

Arcturus paused, wand twitching at his side. “Why should they listen to you?”

What had he just volunteered for? “I’m one of them,” he said quickly, not really sure of the answer himself, only sure that his grandfather absolutely could not go to a Death Eater meeting, “and I need to establish my own name.” There, that was right, wasn’t it? He couldn’t step on Arcturus’s toes, but all the same. Arcturus couldn’t go. “What will they think of me if my grandfather has to come in and bring them back in line?”

After an agonizing moment, Arcturus nodded minutely. “Yes. Go put the fear of the Blacks in them. We take care of our own.” He was breathing heavily but seemed more in control. “And you tell that Bellatrix, she’s to behave. Don’t go getting caught. I won’t get on the stand for anyone stupid enough to get arrested.”

“Yes, sir,” Regulus said. In all honesty, he agreed that anyone who got caught by the Aurors—a group known for missing all but the most obvious of attacks—deserved what they got. On the other hand, it seemed wrong to abandon family just because they liked dramatics more than personal safety.

The lesson began after that with Regulus taking notes on the official establishment of wizarding nobility by King Edward II in 1307. Most families from that era had died out or changed names through intermarriage, but there were a number of titles that remained, including the Earl of Lincoln, currently held by Herman Yaxley.

When Arcturus was done rambling about his personal enemies in the Wizengamot, most of whom were Welsh, Regulus went home and had time to move the Horcrux from its previous hiding place, under a hearthstone, to a plain black box in one of the upper sitting room cabinets, where he figured it would be safe for at least a few days. His mother only used the upper sitting room when entertaining guests, something she hadn't done recently, and she only looked in the cabinets if she lost personal jewelry--a fairly regular occurrence when Sirius had lived at home, but something that ended when he left.

Usually he put some mild repelling hexes on the hiding place, but that was when his Mark burned, and he thought he had better not be late for a meeting where he would have to maintain that he was a loyal servant of the Dark Lord due to hiding a part of the Dark Lord's soul.

* * *

He Apparated and found himself, again, at Lucius Malfoy's townhouse. Hopefully Narcissa was holding up well under the Dark Lord's residence; for his part, he couldn't imagine trying to keep his mother and the Dark Lord in the same house, never mind the Horcrux issue.

Between the lesson and the quick visit to Grimmauld, Regulus had had plenty of time to think about Aunt Cassiopeia's death, and had come to the conclusion that the Dark Lord probably knew nothing about the Horcrux. If he had found out, Regulus would have been the first to die, not Aunt Cassiopeia, whose only involvement had been to write a letter. Which set him to thinking about other reasons the Death Eaters could have for wanting her dead, and came up with only two: The books she restored came from across the political spectrum and perhaps one had sparked the Dark Lord's wrath, or, less speculatively, she was one of the last members of their family to have contact with Sirius.

But before Regulus could confront any Death Eaters on the issue, he had to first survive his own meeting with the Dark Lord. He let himself into the townhouse and went up the stairs.

Lucius was waiting for him on the landing, with a new red welt across his face. “He no longer wants to see you. Or anyone.”

Regulus shifted his weight to one foot and considered his cousin-in-law. “The news is not good, I take it." There had been times when the Dark Lord hadn't _needed_ him, but didn't _want_ him? Something had happened.

"Wybert Gaveston, you know him?"

"Unfortunately," Regulus said, having met the Earl of Cornwall at Wizengamot meetings. He was a decrepit old terror who was only tolerated because his title was one of the oldest and his lands were the largest, and due to his son's death in the war on the Continent, and his grandson's death in mysterious circumstances, his only heir was a young girl he kept in seclusion.

Lucius nodded curtly. "He's declared against the Dark Lord. _And_ keeps giving interviews to the Prophet about the threat that is, and I quote, the Death Eater menace. The Ministry is going to have to respond, and it won't be favourable."

He could certainly understand why the Dark Lord was upset. Gaveston had the weight to make the Ministry listen to matters the Minister was otherwise happy to ignore. "What put a crup in his cap? We're fighting for his rights, even the old fool can understand that."

"He's got an eye on the long game," Lucius said. "I spoke with him today, to try and make him see sense. But he is insistent that the problem with his son and grandson was the wives, and the only proper spouse for the girl is a damned Mudblood, who he can control properly. He's none too pleased that our people have been pruning the bush. His words."

Privately, Regulus could understand. _Publicly_... "He's so upset over whatever was wrong with the wives that he'd dilute the blood? Marry so low? Is he _diseased_?"

Lucius rolled his eyes. "If he were, it would be easier to deal with. As it is..."

"He dies now and we take the blame. Listen, did himself say anything about me?"

That was evidently unexpected: Lucius paused and tilted his head in thought. "Only that he has no need of you; I was interrogated about Cornwall so I expect he wishes to hear nothing more of nobility." He touched the welt on his face. "Certainly nothing more of Gaveston."

Kind of Lucius to take the fall for him. “But he did want to see me before.”

Lucius shrugged minutely. "He may wish to make an announcement to all the Marked. He may have changed his mind. I do not dare to presume."

Of course not. None of them ever tried to anticipate the Dark Lord's mind. "Good day, then, Lucius. Give my wishes to Narcissa."

They exchanged short bows and Regulus went back downstairs to find Bellatrix. If she hadn't directly taken part in Cassiopeia's murder, she would have some idea who had.

Inside the ballroom—expanded into the next house over—Regulus found almost all of those Marked. Presumably the Dark Lord was planning some form of announcement. Good: He would have something to share with Bones later. Bellatrix being Bellatrix, it didn't take him long to find her holding court over a handful of Death Eaters about his age.

"Cousin," he said politely, taking a wine glass from one of the trays that circled the room.

“ _Reggie_ ,” Bellatrix said in evident delight. “Tell me: There’s a Hogsmeade weekend next week, and himself wants me and a few others to pay them a visit. Is there anyone in _particular_ you want me to find?”

He kept himself relaxed and a smile on his face. There was no one he was close to left at Hogwarts that would be in danger from Bellatrix. It didn't matter to him if some Muggle-borns were killed. "Any I had an interest in have already left,” he said casually. “I believe there’s still a few Prewetts there, perhaps they would appreciate new friends.”

She beamed at him and took his elbow. “What a _lovely_ idea. Aren’t they cousins of ours, somehow? A nice family reunion is just what they need before Easter.”

Regulus turned the conversation carefully towards his own interests. “Speaking of family...”

Bellatrix sighed, taking his wine glass and draining it. “Don’t be dull, Reg darling, family should be separate from fun.”

He ignored this. “Someone murdered Aunt Cassiopeia. Apparently she's been dead for a while, but she was only discovered this week.”

She was silent for a moment. “The blood traitor had it coming,” she said, but in a weaker tone than Bella’s usual opinions on the war.

“She was still a Black,” he said, turning to face her. “She was my problem."

She did look displeased at that—good. Bellatrix had never met a moral she didn’t disapprove of, but she was consistent on the superiority of the Black family. “You should talk with Rowle.” She looked up at him through her eyelashes. "He was very upset about Sirius, back when it happened. Although, he is a boaster, usually. Maybe he's finally learned to keep his mouth shut." She grinned. "A boaster and a _screamer_."

Regulus would tactfully leave unasked the question of why Bellatrix had left her husband for, of all people, Thorfinn Rowle. “Thank you,” he said instead.

She took another glass of wine and considered it. “You’re right: This should stay within the family.” With that, she wandered off, no doubt looking for new and unwarned Death Eaters to terrify.

Regulus turned his attention to finding Rowle.

Rowle was uncouth and generally unpopular, but brought a consistent stream of recruits from families not prestigious enough to attend Hogwarts, and so had been given the Mark. He found Rowle talking with Corban Yaxley—his father was the Earl of Lincoln’s brother, he now knew—and Edmund Nott, an ill-matched duo.

"Regulus," Edmund said, turning to welcome him in. "Rowle says we should start our own propaganda, what do you think?"

He blinked and shifted his weight on his heels. "If we can gag the _Prophet_ , what's the difference?"

Rowle gestured with one meaty finger. " _If_. If. How much luck have we had with that so far?"

"Virtually none." Corban Yaxley's black eyes glittered. "That's Ed's job, and look how it's going."

Edmund put his hands behind his back. "Himself has no complaints. If you want me to jeopardize my status, of course, I would be delighted to make one of the muddy bastards scream. But not quite yet."

"And in the meantime," Rowle said insistently, "we need to be gettin' our own story out! No one's hearing _our_ side."

Regulus reminded himself that Rowle hadn't gone to Hogwarts and had instead attended a small rural school deep in Wales; he couldn't be expected to know about the information passing among the Slytherins. But Regulus wasn't here to chat about newspapers. "I understand you're making more than enough noise yourself," he said, smiling.

Rowle frowned, looking more like a pig than usual. "Says who?"

"Bellatrix. She also says you were involved in the murder of Cassiopeia Black." Or near enough, anyway. If Rowle hadn't been involved, that would be annoying and a hassle, but ultimately manageable.

The others were backing away—not turning, but just giving them space. Rowle didn’t go for his wand, not yet, but he was visibly wary. “Bellatrix says too much.”

“Bellatrix says enough,” Regulus corrected, unable to hide a smirk. _Got him_. "Why did you murder my aunt?"

Rowle had his hand on the pocket where his wand was. “She was a blood traitor and a whore.”

Regulus was toying with drawing his wand first—it would provoke a fight, but they were headed towards one regardless. “I will give you the first, but not the second. Either way, she was a Black first, and she was my responsibility.”

“You?” Rowle said, in astonishment.

The listeners were beginning to split into groups. Edmund was backing towards Regulus, and Corban was getting closer to Rowle, predictably. But the other Death Eaters were beginning to circle, with Lorette and Severus coming towards him, and Lance and Walden moving towards Rowle.

“You’ve too soft a heart to kill your family,” Rowle continued.

Regulus blinked—and then laughed, at first fake, but then for real. "Oh, that's right! You weren't at Hogwarts. I assure you, I would have no problem putting Sirius in an early grave. Cassiopeia, on the other hand, was a charming and dim-witted old coot who we all shamelessly took advantage of." He stopped laughing and gave Rowle a hard stare. "And she was my problem. You should have come to the Duke of Exeter or to me, not taken it into your own hands."

Rowle, whose family had lived in shacks in Wales for as long as anyone knew, curled his lip. "Fucking noble. You won't stick your neck out for the rest of us."

"Which would be why I have the Mark, yes," Regulus said coolly, and was rewarded with Edmund's muffled snorts. "You, meanwhile, seem to only be of value when it comes to murdering old ladies. I wouldn't want to presume to know why the Dark Lord does anything, but my, it does make one wonder."

Instantly, Rowle stepped towards him. "I'll show you what I can do. Just you wait."

"Why should I wait?" Regulus asked, drawing his wand. "We're both here, right now. Let's settle this. And when I win, you will apologize to me for not allowing me to handle my family."

Edmund sighed. "Outside, then. I'll second Regulus."

Rowle looked less certain. "Yaxley."

Regulus didn't care: Yaxley was cruel but simplistic, and Edmund was _creative_. He turned for the stairs—now that a duel was called, Rowle wouldn't dare hex him in the back—and nudged Edmund's shoulder. "Thank you."

"You owe me."

Regulus owed him quite a bit, thanks to the book loan, but that was a problem for another night. Right now he had a wand that only sometimes worked and a duel to win.

By the time everyone gathered outside, the back garden was crowded. Rowle took off his outer robe to keep his arms free. Regulus left his on. Yaxley and Edmund finished a hushed conversation and went to their respective fighters.

"No death, no permanent maiming. Everything else is fine, including the Imperius and the Cruciatus,” Edmund told him.

He didn't have anything for Edmund; there was never any need to bring money to a meeting, so he usually Apparated with just his wand. "You could've left death on the table. If he defeats me, my grandfather will have me skewered."

"How lucky for you," Edmund said blandly.

On the other side of the ring, Yaxley was having a similar conversation with a furious-looking Rowle.

Regulus stepped away from Edmund, shaking his arms loose. "Did he _want_ to kill me?"

Edmund frowned. "Yaxley doesn't."

Not much of a comfort. Regulus turned to face Rowle.

After a moment, Rowle said something quietly to Yaxley, and then stepped into the ring himself. Yaxley and Edmund cast the charms to protect observers, and the duel was on.

Reluctantly, on both their parts, they put up their wands and bowed to each other. "You can apologize any time," Regulus said tauntingly, backing to the edge of the ring and starting to circle.

"Eat shit, Black," Rowle snapped, before jerking his wand down.

He didn't even have to sidestep the spell, but it did mean that Rowle could cast silently—dangerous. Of course, Regulus had stopped all verbal casting in seventh year.

 _Glacius_.

The spell felt quick and clean, which was good. He was still uneasy about his new wand, but too late now. Rowle shouted, " _Protego_!" and stopped the spell just in time.

 _Kipyatit_.

This one felt harder, and he had to force it through, but it came close enough to make Rowle snarl and cast right back at him.

He deflected it with a Stunning Spell and then immediately fired off another. Rowle dodged and responded. For a moment they were moving at the same speed—block, cast, block, cast—which gave Regulus just enough time to have a few scattered thoughts.

One, Rowle was a little too good for someone homeschooled. Two, so far they had been sticking to legal, predictable magic.

Rowle tripped on a cobblestone, then, and Regulus shouted, " _Ignis!"_  The wand jerked a little in his hand, but fire spewed from it all the same.

Swearing loudly, Rowle put out the flames with several waves of his wand. " _Stupefy_!"

Regulus deflected it. He wasn't angry enough for Dark magic, not yet, so he sent a few more jinxes Rowle's way.

They exchanged another few rounds, circling each other, before Rowle thrust his wand forward silently. Black gas billowed out of the end of it and moved against the wind towards Regulus.

He could respond or defend. Apple and dragon heartstring, he thought, and then thought firmly, heels rooted to the ground and shoulders back, _Dissipati._

His will, his focus, swept out in an arc until it hit the gas. For a moment the two struggled, but Regulus leaned forward, pulling his wand down and in, and the gas spiraled into nothing.

Looking furious, Rowle jerked his wand again.

Whatever it was, Regulus sidestepped it. He couldn't play a defensive game forever, but he didn't trust his wand with offensive, Dark magic. What happened if it rebelled completely?

 _Glacius_.

Schoolboy jinxes would have to do.

He stepped up the rate of his spellcasting, thinking about the timing drills Julien had him do for Quidditch, and Rowle struggled to match. It was almost anticlimactic at the end.

 _Impedimenta_.

Rowle couldn't get a shield up in time, and staggered, hit firmly in the chest.

 _Expelliarmus_.

His wand flew out of his hand and Regulus caught it. They both stood there, panting, for a moment before Regulus said, "Do you apologize?"

For a moment, Rowle looked like he might say _no_. There was a low muttering from the gathered Death Eaters, and Rowle slouched. "Sorry for touching a blessed Black. I assure you, it won't happen again."

Regulus bowed, dropped Rowle's wand, and turned away. "Good night, then."

At the edge of the ring, where Edmund had already dispelled the protections, was Lucius Malfoy. "He wants a word."

Regulus stifled a sigh and went to see what the Dark Lord wanted. The Dark Lord had moved to the library, pacing among the stacks. "My lord," Regulus said, bowing much more deeply than he had to Rowle.

"Rowle angered you," the Dark Lord said, facing him. "Yet you did not use Dark magic against him. This is a weakness I will not accept in my Death Eaters."

He stared at the floor, thinking of nothing, thinking of water, thinking of deep lakes in distant caves—thinking of rock, thinking of mountains. "Yes, my lord." It scared him how readily his mind turned back to the cave. But that would have to wait.

The Dark Lord walked over to the windows, which looked out on a Muggle street. "You will meet with Severus three times a week. He is a good duelist and informs me he has tutored you before. You will not embarrass me to the Ministry."

"Yes, my lord." It didn't matter what he thought, or wanted, or—he breathed deep and swallowed resentment.

"That will be all."

Regulus bowed and backed away, grateful and hating himself for it that he hadn't been cursed tonight.

* * *

He Apparated back to Grimmauld, noted with relief that his mother was already asleep, and went to bed himself.

In the morning he woke and remembered that Bones wanted a meeting after he spoke with the Dark Lord, _and_ that the Dark Lord wanted him to train with Severus, which meant he had to arrange training with Severus, _and_ that he was missing his lessons with his grandfather.

Moaning and stretching stiff muscles, he pulled on clean robes and went to Teignbridge. Arcturus took him to task for his tardiness, which he submitted to, and then quizzed him on nobles who weren't in the WIzengamot, the only one of whom he could remember was the Malfoy family. The lesson ended with Arcturus, furious, berating him for incompetency and accusing him of self-sabotage. Regulus thought, but did not say, that if he was going to be so upset with Regulus's efforts, what in Merlin's name would have happened if Sirius was still in the family?

When that was over, he sent Nyctimene to Bones asking for a meeting and one of the Black family owls to Severus, same. Then he went back to Grimmauld, looking forward to an afternoon off, already anticipating spending it in the library with one of the books his father had never let him touch.

Only he realized, passing the third floor where the upper sitting room was, that he had forgotten his mother liked to spring clean—just a touch, the smallest taste, before ordering Kreacher to finish it off—and that the only objects she ever cared about were jewelry, and that last night he had been too hurried to put the hexes on the box that held the Horcrux, the locket, the appealingly ornate necklace and pendant, on _that_ box.

He turned so sharply he fell down the stairs trying to get back to the upper sitting room.

His mother wasn't in there.

Neither was the locket.


	11. The Web (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter on August 6! Thanks to Elizabethdove, noaacat, and charamei; special thanks to Lykanth for helping with name suggestions.
> 
> TWs: Abusive family, dead animal mention (vis a vis potions), canon typical racism, alcohol and implied alcohol abuse

The locket was gone.

His blood ran cold and for a long moment, all he could do was stare at the empty jewelry box and shake. His mother had the locket. She had to. No one else came into Grimmauld Place, and the elves wouldn't touch their possessions without orders. Or else he really was losing it, which just didn't bear thinking about.

Regulus finally found the ability to move and scrambled up the stairs to the master bedroom. Walburga was examining herself in the full-length mirror, wearing a set of ornate, formal robes and the locket in prominent position. "Mother!"

She turned, scowling. "What _is_ it, Regulus?"

He flinched, not able to control himself, and looked at the floor rather than at her directly. Perhaps it would be easier that way, if he tried to look apologetic. _Sorry, I need the jewelry back, it's actually a Horcrux_. "I—you found the locket." He cursed himself the moment the words came out. Found? _Found_? Now she would know he was up to something, and once Walburga had a hint of wrongdoing, she never let it rest.

" _Found_?" she said, echoing his thoughts. "Yes, I _found_ this in _my_ jewelry. Is there a problem? Were you concealing it for some purpose?"

His tongue felt thick and heavy and he had to force words out around it. "Yes, I, I was, it was going to be a present. For your birthday." _What?_

Walburga stared at him, looking about as surprised as he felt. Where had _that_ come from? He hadn't gotten her a birthday present since he was nine and thought they were like other families and gave presents. The only saving grace was that her birthday was coming up in April and not, for example, in January, which would be truly unbelievable.

"It's your first," he heard himself say, although Regulus was pretty sure he wasn't in control of this in any measurable way, "without Father. I didn't want you to be lonely and I thought that...suited." He firmly closed his mouth and prayed.

There was a long moment where Walburga examined him. "A birthday present." She unclasped the chain and held the locket out in front of her. "You thought to give me a birthday present."

He bit his lip so he couldn't speak, because if he just remained silent, she might even argue herself out of punishing him.

"Why was it with my jewelry?"

Regulus took a step back without meaning to. "I—"

She put the locket back on and stepped towards him. "Don't lie, Reggie, you know how much I hate it."

"I couldn't think of a better hiding place." He swallowed, talked faster so that she didn't think about this too much. "It's a very old locket, it's not Slytherin's but it is a copy, a fourteenth century one, Borgin didn't know what he had there, really."

That last distracted her, finally. "Borgin sold this?"

Sure, why not. "He thought it was a early twentieth century replica, but I tracked it down and it's definitely mid fourteenth from France."

For some reason, she accepted this. As she returned to examining herself in the mirror, Walburga said, "Thank you for the early birthday present, Reggie, it goes so well with my eyes."

His skin crawled. "Of course, Mother." Well, if Walburga was wearing it, at least he'd always know where the locket was, he supposed. The faintest of silver linings.

He slipped away before she could ask him anything else, and spent a long while in his room, vomiting into a bucket. He head never, not once, pictured Walburga _combined_ with the Dark Lord, and yet the books were clear enough that long association with a Horcrux inevitably led to possession. Walburga on her own gave him the shakes—even though she was his mother, which was horrible of him, but he couldn't parse that now—and the Dark Lord terrified him nearly as badly as she did, so the two _together_ —

Regulus didn't sleep well that night, nor did it get better when he went down to breakfast in the morning and discovered his mother already there, still wearing the locket. He was sick again upon finding not one, but two annoyed owls from Bones: Apparently she had replied in the night and he had missed it, and then slept through her proposed meeting. He scrawled something back, the details of which he wasn't ever clear on—something about meeting Severus instead?—and, thus inspired, left to go see Severus before Walburga could confront him over anything.

Unlike Bones, Severus had not owled back and was not therefore expecting to see Regulus on his doorstep shortly before noon. "What the hell."

Regulus jutted his jaw, angry with himself as much as with Severus. Spinner's End made him anxious, and he knew this, and he still had come here unprompted, even though this was going to mean _more_ meetings because Severus was nothing if not vengeful. "The Dark Lord wants me to have lessons."

"One lesson a week should suffice, and we're not starting—" Severus looked him up and down before sighing. "You look like shit. Get inside before anyone sees you." It was an empty warning in a place like this: Severus's house might be filthy, but on this street, it didn't stand out.

Still, he really had to look awful to make Severus care, so Regulus slipped into the house and tried not to look sullen.

Door safely locked—three physical ones and two spells—behind them, Severus herded him into the main room. "What happened yesterday? You didn't look this bad on Thursday."

"My mother," Regulus said with a shrug, which, for Slytherins of a certain age, was all that really needed to be said. "Thought it best to get out of the house."

Something softened in Severus's jaw. "Ah." His gaze flicked around: Everyone knew you didn't ask about Severus's parents, and everyone knew why. "I planned to see you on Mondays," he said  curtly. "So there is no place to spar yet. Come. I have brewing to do. You can prepare ingredients." He opened a door to reveal a small, dirty flight of stairs.

Regulus followed him down the stairs to basement that had been furnished as a potions laboratory. Three cauldrons were over flames and a cutting board was piled with roots. "What? Sev, I'm not one of the recruits." He was, even if annoyed, thankful they weren't going to fight today.

"Sit," Severus told him, pressing a clean cutting board and knife into his hands. "No, the recruits have their NEWTs."

Regulus's head popped up of its own volition. "I was under considerable stress, as you should know," he bit out. Somehow he had avoided having this argument so far but now was as good a time as any. At least Severus stuck to words even when baited, which was more than could be said for anyone else in Regulus's life. "That doesn't change my skills."

Severus picked up a mortar and pestle and began crushing something vigorously, apparently forgetting that he hadn't given Regulus anything to cut. "A poor. A _poor_ , you useless little noble, Jesus _Christ_ , didn't I teach you better than that? Didn't you do enough practice after curfew? Why couldn't you brew those in your sleep?"

"It's not a reflection on _you_ ," Regulus snapped, and then regretted it. He had to be the more mature one, because Severus definitely wasn't going to be. Swallowing his pride, he said, "Look, I'm sorry. I screwed it up, even the Dark Lord thinks so. But I'm here now. So teach me." He suspected that much of this was Severus being cranky because his brewing had been interrupted and plans changed, and not so much that he was actually that annoyed at Regulus's NEWT scores—although he was, no doubt, annoyed at Regulus's NEWT scores, which was only to be expected. Just that the annoyance was not the causal factor behind the snappishness.

After a long moment, Severus put down the mortar and passed Regulus a small sack. "Clean those. And give me the ingredients in a Calming Draught."

Regulus pulled out a newt—hah, very funny, Severus—and did as ordered.

* * *

He returned to Grimmauld Place in the early evening to find two _deeply_ annoyed owls waiting for him: One, from Bones, he took the letter from and scanned quickly. She wanted a meeting the following evening. The other was from Arcturus.

Regulus remembered, with a sinking cold feeling, that it was Saturday and he had completely forgotten to meet with his grandfather. He Flooed straight to Teignbridge to apologize and make amends, and was treated to an hour long lecture on the basics of responsibility and common courtesy, attributes forgotten by this generation, perhaps because they thought to hide in shadows instead of doing their own work. When Arcturus finally ran out of breath, he gave Regulus a new book on continental nobility and sent him back to Grimmauld. Regulus was subdued through dinner and went to bed early.

The next day he occupied himself with the book and with increasingly contrived plans to get the locket back until it was time for his meeting with Bones.

To his relief, Bones wasn't particularly interested in castigating him for his scheduling flaws. She quizzed him briefly about the duel, and seemed as interested as everyone else was in the peculiarities of his wand. She allowed him to leave the matter of tutoring at the fact of its existence, although he suspected there would be more on that subject later when he started to learn topics not covered in Hogwarts, and asked a few questions about what his grandfather was teaching him.

He didn't mention the locket or his mother.

Eventually, Bones looked at him. "I am surprised you haven't asked for more information."

Regulus shrugged slightly. "He hasn't asked for much, really. I suppose he thinks you don't trust me yet, and is waiting for you to start acting on my information."

"Perhaps, but even if so," Bones rarely shared his views on the Dark Lord's motivations, "that time is rapidly drawing to a close." She must have seen something on his face, but he wasn't sure what he was feeling. At any rate, she said, "I won't tell you what we're doing, but it's time we put them on the defensive. So you will need access to information, and to that end I have a proposition for you."

Regulus didn't know if he should be worried about this. "Oh?"

Bones looked like a Kneazle with cream. “I host small get-togethers for certain families. Attendance at them will convince the public that you really have switched sides, and will give you access to the information He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named so badly wants. Without putting anyone individually in jeopardy.”

He blinked. "Except those who I can identify as being there."

"Everyone knows the risks," Bones said placidly.

Regulus doubted this very much. "They know that I turned traitor, they don't know that I'm still giving him information! What will they do to me when someone gets killed because of what I said?"

Bones leaned forward. "Absolutely nothing, because I will protect you."

Not feeling full of confidence, Regulus let the matter drop. There were arguments he simply couldn't win. "I assume there is a small get-together in the near future, then?"

"There is." She pulled a card out of her desk and passed it to him.

_Regulus Arcturus Black, Earl of Huntingdon is invited to the Christening party of Ronald Bilius Weasley_

_On the date of 6 April 1980_

_To be held at ten am at the Suffolk residence of Madam Bones_

Regulus had never less wanted to attend a party in his life. After stamping down his first responses, which would have ended any support Bones might have had for him, he said, "That's a month away."

"Plenty of time to accustom yourself to the idea, then," she said, and that was that.

* * *

March passed unnervingly quickly, helped by Regulus spending as little time as possible at Grimmauld Place. Walburga had taken to confronting him over the slightest issue, something that she had mostly stopped when he passed his OWLs, and he was not happy it had started up again. He buried himself in studying with Arcturus and with Severus, who were both exacting tutors, and tried to otherwise ignore everyone. This worked for most people, but Narcissa started sending him owls with a catalogue of complaints and concerns, most of which he had absolutely no basis for answering but tried anyway.

All in all, Regulus was almost relieved to have to socialize with someone who knew absolutely nothing of his life. Even if they were Weasleys.

* * *

 

On the morning of April 6th, he dressed in semi-formals and Flooed to Hereford Manor, where he was greeted by a young woman bouncing a baby on her hip.

“Hello!” she said. “I’m Katherine Bones. This is Susan.” She bounced the baby a little more. The baby gurgled.

Regulus, the youngest of the Blacks, tried not to stare too much. “Hello,” he said, first to the baby and then, belatedly, to Katherine. At a guess, she was Amelia’s younger sister. "I am Regulus Black.” He left off the titles, figuring that Katherine wouldn't be impressed with them and most of the other attendees—almost certainly commoners—wouldn't appreciate them.

Katherine smiled. “A pleasure.”

Susan gurgled and said, “Babababababa.”

Katherine cooed at her, and Regulus scooted away from the fireplace. “Where did you say the party was?” he asked in the hopes of not getting drawn into a conversation about the baby.

“Down the hall and to the right.” She looked up at him over the baby’s head. “I’d offer to guide you but Amelia wanted me to watch the Floo.”

He smiled back sort of faintly and walked off.

As early March in Wales was not known for pleasant weather, the christening party was being held in the great hall, where someone had enchanted the windows and ceiling to look like a spring garden. The high table was filled with Weasleys and presided over by Madam Bones. Small round tables were artistically arranged throughout, and he sat himself at the closest one, nodding at the people already sitting.

He recognized Frank Longbottom and Alice Marshall, and then there was a second couple he didn’t know.

“Interesting company for you,” Longbottom said without preamble. He was two years older than Regulus and most of their interactions in school had been Longbottom taking points or assigning detention for something the Slytherin boys had done.

Since leaving school, though, Longbottom and Marshall had turned into one of the Aurors’ foremost pairings, arresting Death Eaters and protecting Mudbloods with panache. They had come to the Dark Lord’s attention last summer, but to date, no one had been able to do more than scratch them. Matters had intensified when they encountered him personally in October: they had held the Dark Lord off while other Aurors rescued his intended victims, a Muggle family. They’d been in battle in the intervening months, but always in the middle of a group; the current plan was to ambush them at home or in public, and the only reason it had failed to date was the Death Eaters didn’t know exactly where Marshall lived, and the protections on Longbottom Manor were nearly as good as the ones on Grimmauld Place.

Regulus felt his face heat and wished it hadn’t. “It was brought to my attention that the war is not as straightforward as I had assumed.” There. That was nicely vague and meaningless.

Marshall raised her eyebrows. “It only just occurred to you? Evidently you’re not as clever as your family likes to say.” Apparently she had remembered the time Reg and Julien had hexed her nose off.

Regulus wasn’t sure who he hated most: Marshall, himself, or Bones, whose idea this all was. “Would you rather have me on the other side?”

Longbottom shook his head. “Alice, leave him be. Amelia invited here, there must be a good reason for that.” He looked at the other couple. “Guys, this is Regulus Black. We…” He paused and grimaced. “I guess you could say we were at school together.”

“Reluctantly,” Marshall muttered.

Not a couple, Regulus realized, eyeing the other two warily. A partnership. He’d be very surprised if they weren’t Aurors or similar. The man grinned easily, although the set of his shoulders and the enchanted bracers he was wearing spoke volumes about his familiarity with violence. “Caradoc Dearborn. Senior Auror, along with this one."

The woman shook her head, scattering salt-and-pepper hair. “Dorcas Meadowes. I don’t suppose you know anything about the disappearance—”

“Dorcas!” Dearborn elbowed his partner. “We’re not on duty. I’m sure if Regulus had anything to tell the Aurors about the disappearance of two Aurors on the same night his father was accidentally cursed, he would have reported it several months ago. Wouldn’t he?” He was not looking at Meadowes, but rather directly at Regulus.

Regulus, for his part, tried not to go as deathly pale as he felt and stared at the ceiling, which was enchanted to look like a spring morning sky. “Absolutely,” he said, aiming for a firm tone and missing by several miles. “I would have reported anything relevant, and since I reported nothing, I, well, I did spend the night at St Mungo’s.”

Dearborn looked like he’d just found the answer to something that had been puzzling him.

Meadowes looked murderous. “Why are you here?”

Regulus swallowed his immediate urge to run. “Lady Bones. She invited me. Personally.”

“Great,” Meadowes said tightly. “Why did you answer it?”

Longbottom cleared his throat. “Er, isn’t the important thing that Amelia _did_ invite him?”

Regulus thought he had a rather good point but knew better than to say it.

Marshall said, “Shut up, I want to know too.”

He had to take a few seconds to breathe, but eventually managed to say, “I think the Dark Lord is wrong.”

Dearborn let out a huge sigh and leaned back in his chair. “Well, there you have it, Dorcas. Whatever he was before, he’s ours now. The Headmaster is always on about second chances, isn’t he?”

Meadowes muttered something incomprehensible that nevertheless sounded extremely violent. Regulus decided to keep an eye on her over her partner: Dearborn was just another gruff veteran Auror, but Meadowes seemed unpredictable and nasty, the sort of person the Dark Lord would recruit if it weren't for inconvenient political opinions or family history.

“Now that we’re all on the same page…” Longbottom said, pouring himself a cup of tea. “This is supposed to be a party.”

Dearborn grinned. “So it is. To Molly Weasley’s sixth son.” He poured tea into his cup, then did something fancy with his wand and was left holding a crystal glass filled with an amber liquid.

“Showoff,” Meadowes said in a carrying whisper.

Regulus toyed with the idea of doing the same, then decided that letting these people know what he could do would probably blow up in his face. Instead he served himself tea, politely, and without any nonverbal displays. After a moment he said, “Sixth?”

Meadowes rolled her eyes. “William, Charles, Percy, Fred, George, and now Ronald. I thought you were made to memorize family trees?”

“Only the important ones,” he replied immediately, flippant because the only people he ever discussed family with were other nobles. Realizing his error slightly too late, Regulus stared at the table as his face burned.

Longbottom seemed to wish that he had gone for the alcoholic drink as well. “We’re cousins,” he told the table at large before taking a larger than advised drink from his cup.

Dearborn drained his glass. “Are the Weasleys not important because they’re poor or because they’re politically out of favour? Or for some other arcane pureblood reason?”

Regulus refrained from compounding his error pointing out that the Dearborns were a very old Norman pureblood family. “Because they…” He reined in most of his immediate answers, and tried to come up with something the people at the table would understand. “A bit of both,” he said, shifting awkwardly. “They don’t carry on many pureblood traditions, which is the real problem, but it’s both because of their politics and because of their finances.”

Shrugging, Dearborn twitched his wand and refilled his glass. Conjured food and beverages tasted well enough, but didn’t provide nourishment—one of the reasons families like the Weasleys existed. “Not an answer that’ll make you popular here, but at least it’s consistent.”

He almost asked if there were people whose answers _weren’t_ consistent, then remembered about Walden Macnair. “I’m not here to make Weasleys like me,” he said in place of anything else.

Marshall snorted. “For the third time in this conversation, I find myself wondering why you are here.”

Regulus shrugged, uncomfortable. “All my friends support the Dark Lord.” It sounded more vulnerable than he was intending, and far more honest.

But all four Aurors immediately backed off—Marshall even looked like she felt a little sorry. “Fair enough,” Dearborn said. “Here’s a better topic: I hear your cousin is expecting.”

“Due date is July first,” Regulus said, glad for the opening. “She is healthy, she is progressing as expected, and every day I receive an owl with updates and complaints.”

Longbottom looked genuinely interested in this. “Honestly, I think it’s a really good sign that so many people are having children. The Death Eaters can’t be terrifying everyone, I mean there’s Ron and Susan, obviously, and then the Malfoys, and James and Lily and—” He broke off rather abruptly. “Sorry, I think that’s it.”

Meadowes rolled her eyes. “Grow up, Frank, everyone you just named is on one side of the war or another.”

“The Goldsteins just announced a new son,” Marshall put in, somewhat unexpectedly. “You can’t say they’re not neutral.”

Dearborn scowled. “ _Ought_ to be on our side. Blood purity is such an obvious parallel to—”

“To Muggle affairs?” Regulus asked innocently. “Unless you were going to argue that the Goldsteins are treated differently for being Jewish.”

Dearborn looked taken aback. “They were involved in the war against Grindlewald.”

“As were the Blacks.”

Marshall sighed. “Not to support Frank in his naïveté, but the Macdougals announced their new daughter last week, and my apartment is two doors down from one of the Hopkins boys, and his wife is very pregnant. So perhaps there is something to be said for a decrease in fear.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Frank said. “So Narcissa’s full of opinions?”

Normally Regulus didn’t hold with talking about Blacks to other families. Wasn’t the purpose of this, though, to convince them that he really had switched sides? What better way to do that than to put down his own family. “When is she not? More to the point, she’s full of fears. Everything she does hurts the baby, in her mind, and there’s nothing anyone can do to convince her otherwise. The only good thing is that it’s rather effectively tethered Lucius to her side.”

“Smart money is on Lucius being Marked,” Meadowes said contemplatively. “A good thing for the war effort, then.”

Regulus had meant a good thing for him, but sure. In the interests of actually accomplishing his purpose here, he angled the conversation slightly. “I’m sure that trait isn’t unique to Narcissa, though.”

“Merlin no,” Marshall said. “Lily won’t shut up about whether casting magic hurts the baby. Never you mind that witches have been casting magic right up until the moment of labour for generations and no harm done, she’s turning libraries inside out looking for any evidence. And James is trailing her, trying to help.”

Without warning, two men joined them, Conjuring chairs and making Longbottom and Dearborn scoot sideways. They were both young, tall, and ginger. “Alice, just tell Molly Lily needs advice and Lily’ll be out of your hair and Molly’ll be out of ours.”

Marshall rolled her eyes at the speaker. “I’m not setting Molly Weasley on my friend, Gideon, that’d be mean. If Lily wants help from Molly, well, everyone knows where the Burrow is.”

“I’m not Gideon,” the Prewett said. “And how dare you suggest that Molly is…whatever you suggested.”

Dearborn shook his head. “Are you already drunk? It’s barely noon.”

The other Prewett shrugged. “Alice, he’s having you on, I’m Fabian. You can’t expect us to come into a room as packed as this one without being a little sloshed, ‘Doc. Too many people.”

“Oi,” Gideon muttered. “Too many people, and too many we don’t know.” He looked straight at Regulus.

He had never, personally, met the Prewetts on the field. Avery had, though, and he had come back gibbering and with his arm cut half off. Sitting very still, Regulus hoped for someone else to address his presence.

“Amelia vouches for him,” Meadowes said, of all people.

Gideon Prewett eyed him for a moment longer, and then relaxed so quickly it had to be faked. “Well that’s alright then. Drink?”

Regulus smiled tightly. “I’ll pass, thank you.”

“Polite Death Eater, aren’t you?” Fabian was spinning his wand around his fingers. “Or is that just because we have you outnumbered?”

Dearborn and Meadowes were brilliant Aurors at the top of the Dark Lord’s list. But the Prewetts scared him more than anyone else at that table. “Even if that’s the reason,” he said quietly, “wouldn’t that still mean I’m not a threat?”

Fabian grinned and put his wand down. “Clever Death Eater, too. Good choice,” he told Dearborn.

“As if I had anything to do with it,” Dearborn said, but he seemed relieved.

“Anyway, Alice, quit insulting our sister,” Gideon said.

Marshall looked like she’d rather not have been drawn back into the conversation. “Do you disagree that it would be unfair to set Molly on Lily?”

The Prewetts looked at each other and then said in unison, “No.”

“Doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be funny though,” Fabian added. “You were complaining, we were just trying to help.”

If that was supposed to be innocent, Regulus thought, the Prewett twins would do an excellent job in the used broom business.

Gideon looked maliciously delighted. “Besides, won’t you need Molly’s help yourself soon?”

“Go sit on a wand,” Marshall said, making the twins roar with laughter. “We didn’t want anyone to _know_ , how did you—”

“You haven’t taken a drink.” Fabian gestured at the empty place in front of her. “Nothing to drink, nothing to eat. Not for nothing are we Molly’s brothers.”

Regulus arrived at the conclusion only slightly behind Dearborn. “You’ve been in the field!” Dearborn shouted, loud enough for people at two other tables to look over. “Merlin’s balls, Alice, you could have been _hit_!”

“There are children present!” the Prewetts said in tones of mock offense spoiled by unconcealed grins.

Marshall was a brilliant red. “I’m not married,” she said crisply. “We were waiting for—”

“ _What would have happened if you got hit_?” Dearborn was very nearly as red. “You think I need you so bad that—”

Longbottom, normally even keeled for a Gryffindor, looked very close to losing his own temper. “I think this was a choice we made that you had no part in and no right to,” he said in a low tone, “and in the end, no harm done.”

Dearborn obviously wanted to argue the point but shut his mouth.

Regulus thought things had cooled enough for him to ask a question that was bugging him. “Isn’t Lady Longbottom rather…notoriously aggressive in pushing matrimony?”

It was Longbottom’s turn to go red. “Mother’s been vocal, yes. We didn’t want to get married until the war ends.”

“ _Didn’t_?” Dearborn said.

Marshall sighed. “It’s going to be obvious fairly soon. Officially, we eloped last fall. The service…” She stared at the ceiling for a long moment, jaw clenched.

Slowly, so everyone could see what he was doing and not hex him for it, Regulus drew his wand. “ _Muffliato_.”

“What was that?” Gideon said darkly.

Regulus took it as a mark in his favour that he didn’t have any wands pointed at him—yet. “A spell I learned at Hogwarts. No one not at this table can hear anything said until I end the spell.”

“Handy.” Gideon and Fabian exchanged glances. “Owl us, we want to know.”

Regulus nodded, paying way more attention to Marshall. Could he get away with telling this to the Dark Lord? Or would it just guarantee a midnight visit from the Prewett twins?

"The service is at the end of the month," Marshall said. "Immediate families only, very quiet. We'll announce the pregnancy and the wedding a few weeks after that."

“We’ll keep quiet about it,” Dearborn said.

Everyone else nodded. Regulus didn’t know if he was lying or not. He wanted to keep Marshall’s secret, but at the same time, the reason for being here was to gather information for the Dark Lord—and this was information that he would find valuable. He wasn't sure they knew what they had told him, because it had come in two parts, but he now knew not only that Marshall was pregnant and soon to be married to Longbottom, but that Marshall lived in an apartment two doors down from a Hopkins. The spells over Marshall's location wouldn't extend to her neighbors, so once those were found...he could send the Death Eaters after Marshall, who hadn't done anything worse to him than a little bit of baiting.

That thought had to be dropped, because he saw Bones approaching. Before she could question him about anything, he ended the _Muffliato_ —eventually he would tell her about that spell, but trying to explain it now would only slow things down. “Black," Bones said, looking around the table before focusing on him. "Enjoying yourself?”

Regulus forced up a smile. “Exceedingly.” He thought everyone knew it was a lie. “Renewing school acquaintances and making new friends.”

Meadowes shook her head. “I’m afraid we interrogated him rather thoroughly, Amelia. He’s been a little quiet since.”

“Hmm,” Bones said. “Come on, Black, someone else for you to meet.”

He nodded at those at the table and stood. “Care to share who?”

She walked a little bit away before saying anything. “You could relax a trifle around them. No one here will hurt you."

"Even the Prewetts?" he asked quietly.

She stopped and looked up at him. "The Prewetts will not be convinced of your support if you keep acting like someone's about to petrify you."

He nodded, stiff. He suspected she was right, but there wasn't much he could say about it. He simply couldn't relax when those around him were taking shots at each other.

"Yes, ma'am."

Bones shook her head. "At any rate, you need to meet Molly."

He straightened so suddenly something popped in his back. He didn't, in fact, need to meet Molly Weasley; he needed to leave now before he met any Weasley.

Apparently anticipating this, Bones grabbed his elbow and pulled him along. “You will meet her and it will not kill you. Poverty isn’t contagious, you know.”

“I know,” he said petulantly. He was about to say something else, but without warning they were at the head table and Molly Weasley was looking at him with a tiny baby in her arms. “Er, hi.”

Molly Weasley looked…like a human. Tired, excited. She smiled at him. “Hello. You must be Amelia’s protégé.”

A word he would never have used to describe himself. “Regulus Black.” He dropped the title out of courtesy, but couldn’t decide whether or not to put out his hand.

Molly solved that by holding out the infant. “Would you like to hold him? He’s sound asleep.”

Not completely sure what he was doing, Regulus held out his hands and the tiny bundle was deposited in them. Ronald Weasley was about the size of a loaf of bread with a shock of red hair and had been tightly wrapped in blue blankets.

“Support his head,” Bones muttered.

Regulus put one hand under the baby’s head and the other under his back and tried not to stare.

Without warning, Molly was headed down the table. “Fred! George! What did I tell you to do?”

Two red headed boys scrambled the rest of the way out of their seats. “No!” one shouted.

Molly scooped both of them up and deposited them back in their chairs. “Sit still, remember? You don’t get to meet your uncles unless you sit still.”

“Uncle!” the other boy echoed.

“Yes,” Molly said patiently as Regulus watched and decided never to have children. “And what do you need to do?”

The toddlers exchanged glances. “Sit still,” one said. The other kicked his legs.

Molly sighed, but came and took Ronald back. “Thank you. Merlin knows, those two haven’t given me a bit of peace. Why I had a child with them still in the toddler years…” She looked fondly at Ronald’s tiny red face and Regulus could make a guess.

“Very nice to meet you,” he said politely, not entirely lying. Maybe it was because Molly was a Prewett by birth. Maybe not. “And Ronald.”

Ronald blinked. It was impossible to tell how aware he was of his surroundings.

Molly smiled at Ronald. “Lovely to meet you, too. It’s nice to see people no longer holding to these old grudges.”

Regulus opted not to disabuse her of that notion.

“I’ll be in touch, Molly, got things to attend to,” Bones said, touching Regulus’s shoulder and jerking her head to the side.

Molly gave them an absentminded nod, so Regulus followed Bones off to the side. “What things?” he asked warily.

"I suspect you are concerned about what to say to the other side."

He nodded tightly. Why was Bones so good at guessing what the problem was? And why was everyone on 'the other side' so _bad_?

"Tell him anything you found important. Everyone at that table is too well trained to have let slip anything important, but not all would be public knowledge. Tell him that, tell him who you talked to today and who you met, tell him that you did well for yourself—and you did, Black. I expect a report on my desk tomorrow morning of what you will share with him. Dismissed."

Regulus blinked. He had expected to be sent back to the table to continue socializing. “To go home?”

“Yes,” Bones said, somewhat snappishly. “Unless you were enjoying the afternoon.”

He stepped back, eying her. “I was being polite,” he said. No, he hadn’t really been enjoying it but he wasn’t crass enough to say so when Bones had arranged something that would keep the Dark Lord off his back.

Bones sighed and looked ten years older. “As was I. We need to discuss things that Albus isn’t ready for you to hear. There’s trust that hasn’t been earned yet, so you need to leave.”

That, at least, made sense. “I will go write that report, then.” He bowed and went to find the Floo.


	12. The Web (3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, apologies for the delay. It was an absolutely wild weekend capped by the presence of my long-distance girlfriend, temporarily short distance for five days. Tried to get this up yesterday for a) on-time-ness and b) so she could scream at me in person but that ended up not happening.
> 
> Thanks as always to elizabethdove, noaacat, and charamei.
> 
> TWs: The usual Death Eater related shenanigans, canon typical violence, and on-screen terrorism and explosions.

 

He was next summoned that Friday. This time it was to a circle of standing stones—audacious to count on the weather being fair, in April—where he greeted several others before moving towards the Dark Lord. He waited until Severus was done, nodding to his tutor. Severus didn't nod back and looked even more harried than usual as he swept off. Trying not to be too concerned about what this meant for the Dark Lord's temper, Regulus approached and bowed. "My lord."

"Rise, Regulus. What do you have for me? I did not request you individually." The Dark Lord looked at him. Even in the twilight, his eyes were more red than before—not just the irises, but it was starting to bleed into the whites.

Trying not to aggravate him, Regulus said, "I apologize for my impertinence, my lord, but this week I attended a party hosted by the Earl of Hereford. Many members of the Headmaster's group were there, including the Weasleys."

Rather than responding, the Dark Lord nodded. He seemed distracted: Every so often he would look past Regulus. Had Severus told him something of particular interest?

“I spoke with a number of Aurors as well.” He had to look away for a moment. They were people now, but it didn’t matter. The Dark Lord wanted information, and Bones was right. It was important that they—that she remain in control of what the Dark Lord knew. “My lord, I have more information on where Alice Marshall lives.”

That got the Dark Lord’s attention. He stepped forward abruptly. "Tell me."

She was probably going to die. Regulus was stuck with that thought as his mouth opened and words spilled out. “She is pregnant. The baby isn't visible yet, but by mid-April they think it will be, so by my understanding, that is around midway through. Her due date is likely in August. The father is Frank Longbottom; they are getting married at month's end, but they plan to keep it quiet. However, she is in the same apartment building on the same floor as Alfred Hopkins and his Mudblood wife.”

“Very good, Regulus,” the Dark Lord said, apparently satisfied. “This will be very useful. Do you have anything else to report?”

He thought about body language and lines of sight. “The Prewett twins are attached to their nephews. A weakness that can be exploited.” He didn’t want them dead, he didn’t, but it wasn’t like they were hiding it particularly well and he had to stay alive because his mother—

"You have not mentioned anything about your training with Severus," the Dark Lord said before Regulus could think anything too incriminating.

He was thrown by the sudden topic change. "I must apologize, my lord, I had not known you were interested—"

"It goes well, then."

He supposed so. "Yes, my lord." He met with Severus almost every afternoon, now, and while Sev still sometimes quizzed him on arcane bits of knowledge, he much more often drilled Regulus in how to fight—and win—against other Dark wizards.

"Dismissed." And like that, the Dark Lord's attention was gone. He was looking back past Regulus, to wherever Severus had disappeared to.

Regulus bowed and backed away, only turning his back when he was safely past the inner ring of stones. He went to go find Severus, to make him share what in Merlin's name he had told the Dark Lord, but he was accosted by Augustus Rookwood first.

"Huntingdon."

Regulus turned toward him, bowing slightly. "Sir Rookwood. This is not your usual venue."

Rookwood rarely attended meetings so as to better cover his position in the Ministry. "It was unexpected, true, and I have only just arrived. His summons seemed urgent."

"I wish you luck with it then. He is in a...an interesting mood."

Rookwood muttered something that sounded suspiciously like  _but when is he not_ , and moved off.

After wasting time trying to find Severus, who had evidently left early, Regulus took a couple drinks, made his goodbyes, and returned—unhappily—to Grimmauld.

* * *

The next day, he saw, in one of the  _Prophet's_  gossip columns, that the old Divination professor at Hogwarts had retired to spend more time developing special strains of tea and that the Headmaster was being very closed mouthed about her replacement (which was why the matter made it to the gossip column in the first place). The reporter was deeply annoyed that she hadn't been given access to all of Dumbledore's hiring notes, and Regulus put the paper in the trash, making a note of the reporter's name. Someone that petty—but also good with a quill—could be useful.

* * *

In the last week of April—time was flying and yet it felt all the same, he didn't understand it—he reported to the Dark Lord on his latest knowledge on the Order. A week before, Bones had given him the contact information for some of the older members and, if reluctantly, he had owled one and asked for a meeting. Owen Oxford was a short Welshman who worked as a Ministry clerk and had an improbable amount of gossip to share on Ministry personnel politics; Regulus reciprocated with lurid stories of bored nobles and overall the conversation was friendly, but when they left the park, Regulus went to write down the names and connect them to higher level Ministry employees for future blackmail. In addition, Oxford was effusive on the matter of the Order—apparently he didn't have any friends, or so Regulus imagined from his eagerness to share information to a complete stranger—and that was what the Dark Lord was interested in tonight.

He passed Rowle on the way out—and wasn't that interesting? Rowle never spoke to the Dark Lord privately—after the meeting went without incident, aside from a new order to spar with Bellatrix, to see how he was progressing.

Bellatrix was clothed when he found her, for once, although Rodolphus was rapidly leaving that state.

“The Dark Lord wanted me to talk to you,” Regulus said, not looking at his cousin-in-law.

Bellatrix kissed Rodolphus on the forehead and looked at Regulus. “Coming to join us on raids, Reggie?”

His wand was in his hand without thinking about it. Bellatrix thought condescension and flirting was how relatives communicated, but Regulus had grown up in the same house as Sirius. Antagonism was to be met with jinxes and nothing less.  _Apis_.

She deflected the hex. “Pathetic.”

“He wants me to spar with you this week.”

Her expression brightened. “How exciting! Tomorrow night at the manor, don’t be late.”

There was really no point in asking what time, was there. “Should I wear armour?” he asked, not at all joking.

Bellatrix considered it. “Robes. No holds barred, so be prepared. Apparently I’m not allowed access to the Healer anymore.”

No, not since they only had one and Bellatrix only ever wanted information on how to dissect people more thoroughly. “I’ll bring extra potions,” he said dryly.

“Are you sure you don’t want to join?” Bellatrix asked.

He and Rodolphus eyed each other. “Not at all.” He wanted no part in his cousin’s sex life—or much of her life at all, really, Bellatrix was terrifying.

Bellatrix pouted at him, but said only, “Watch if you want, leave if you’re just going to be prissy.”

He left. The Blacks may be known for incest, but he had no interest in sex—with Bellatrix or with anyone else.

* * *

His mother and-or the Dark Lord was in rare form the next day and threw a plate at his head as he walked out the front door, so he was already riled up when he arrived at Blackmere Manor. The lord of the manor was Baron Reginald Lestrange, the twelfth Baron Strange, and while he wasn't Marked and rarely came on raids, everyone—everyone in the Death Eaters, at least, which to be fair was a little biased in the matter—knew where his loyalties lay. So there was no real concern about choice of spells tonight, which meant Bellatrix would in no way be holding back.

The Lestrange elf met him and took him around the manor to the back where someone had set up enough lamps to light the yard. Rabastan was outside in just a house robe and smoking a cigar. “Reg! She’s been looking forward to handing you your arse.”

“Charming. A touching bit of family love.” Regulus unfastened his travelling cloak and hung it over the nearest lounge chair. “I take it we’re to have an audience?”

Rabastan blew out three smoke rings in succession, followed by a smoke dragon. “Dolph and I want to watch. We’ll put out any fires and such.”

Regulus flicked a dart from the end of his wand through the three smoke rings. “Taking bets?”

“I put ten galleons on you to bleed her before she puts you down.” Rabastan tossed his cigar up in the air and hit it with a silent spell that turned it to fireworks.

He watched the sparks and thought about the Lestrange brothers. "Rodolphus thinks I can't get a mark on her before she gets me to surrender."

"He thinks there's a reason himself hasn't sent you on raids." Rabastan tucked his wand away, shrugging. "Thinks very little of you, does my brother."

Curious in spite of himself—the whole family was notorious for good reason, and Rabastan was only four years older than him—Regulus asked, "And you think?"

The door to the manor opened and Bellatrix came out, trailed by her husband.

Rabastan grinned, backing away. “I think there’s a reason himself hasn’t sent you on raids.”

Rodolphus joined his brother on the side while Bellatrix approached Regulus. “I hope you’re feeling well,” she said, pulling her sleeves clear of her wrists.

“Apparently we’re being bet on,” Regulus said, watching her hands. This wasn’t a duel and he didn’t expect Bellatrix to give him much of a warning.

Indeed: Her left hand clenched first, which gave him just enough time to think  _Protego_! before her hex was coming at him. “I hope they bet on me.”

 _Crux_! “I think they’re smart enough to know there’s no other choice,” he said, and then there was no time for banter.

Bellatrix was an offense heavy fighter, and he took four hits on his shield before she paused long enough for him to respond again. It took about that long for them to stop naming their curses and just send bolts of focused anger. If it wasn't a true spell, wasn't named, then most shields wouldn't work, and a lot of his energy was spent dodging and trying to deflect the bolts. The rest was spent forcing his wand to cast Dark magic, which it did, but unwillingly and too slowly.

He flicked his wand, focused on proving himself—to Bellatrix, to Rab, to the Dark Lord—but she sent out a cloud that swallowed the bolt before advancing on him. It took near as much focus as he had to send a spray of fire back at it.

The fire swept through the cloud and destroyed it. Bellatrix glared at him and raised her wand to respond.

 _Haema_! The hex was old and not very popular, and he guessed Bellatrix would be expecting unformed magic.

She responded with a spray of silver darts, but his hex passed through unharmed to splash against Bellatrix’s shoulder. She shouted and flinched, and the robes on her shoulder looked dark and wet.

“You little…” She flicked her wand sideways.

Regulus didn’t bother trying to deflect it but fell flat to the ground, casting as he went down.  _Algos_!

Dark Magic was all well and good, but there was something to be said for obscure, legal spells, especially when his wand fought every emotional spell.

That she did block, snarling, and hit him solidly with something that made him start coughing too hard to breathe.

Healing had never been one of his skills. He forced himself to one knee and sent a mixed string of spells.  _Haema! Crux!_ And then all his anger and pain forced into a bolt, too much for even the wand to protest.

Bellatrix called up the earth in front of her feet and all three hit only dirt. “Well, Reggie? How’s your health now?”

He would’ve cursed her if he could. Whatever she’d hit him with was crumpling his lungs with every pained movement.  _Ignis exacerbis_. It hurt too much to focus it, and he was quickly losing the ability to care anyway. The wand flared in his hand but he snarled and used the last of his energy to push.

Fire burst out of his wand over the grass and spread towards his cousin.

He grinned through the pain, trying to shove himself upward.

She shouted something but it couldn’t be heard over the screaming of the flames. Something hot touched his hand, and he jerked back—would’ve gasped but couldn’t breathe—and the flames were on him—

* * *

He woke up later, breathing steadily, hand wrapped in bandages.

“You  _idiot_  boy,” Bellatrix said fondly, sitting by his bed. “Fiendfyre? When you couldn’t breathe?”

Regulus smiled, pleased it didn’t hurt. “Did I win?”

She rolled her eyes. “You were unconscious at the end. What do you think?” She paused, then said, “Rab said the part about putting out fires was supposed to be metaphorical.”

He shrugged and tried to sit up. Bella pushed him back down. “Leave off,” he grumbled.

“Stay put, I didn’t pour four potions down your throat for nothing. Listen, Reg…” Bellatrix was serious. Bellatrix was  _never_  serious, so he shut up and listened. “We handled the flames, it was good practice for them, but your wand…”

 _Damn_ , Regulus thought faintly, now really pushing himself up to a sitting position. “Burnt?”

She twisted her lips, half smiling. “Couldn’t even find the ashes. Don’t you ever— _ever_  pull a stunt like that again. Not unless it’s against Aurors. Swallow your damn pride and let me beat you.”

“Yes,  _mother_.”

Bellatrix put two fingers up. “And don’t make me compliment you to the Dark Lord again either, I don’t like praising other people.” But she was smiling for real now, so he didn’t say anything in response.

“You were unconscious all night and Rabastan,” who had done three months Healer training before cursing his Mudblood partner, “wants you here until tomorrow. I’ve made your excuses to Uncle Arcturus. Monday I’ll take you to Ollivander’s for a wand.”

He eyed her suspiciously. Bellatrix wasn’t often nice—funny, yes, rebellious, definitely, but not nice—and for all that she liked him, her idea of kindness didn’t usually approach anybody else’s. “What are you up to?”

She tossed her hair over one shoulder. “I have an errand to run and could use an excuse. My poor,  _hapless_  cousin, lost  _another_  wand, horrible accident, couldn’t be avoided, and I happen to be the only one willing to help him replace it.” She batted her eyelashes.

Death Eater business. “Sounds perfect,” he said cheerily. “Everyone loses a wand at least once.”

This time  _You idiot boy_  was communicated entirely nonverbally. “Regulus, no one but you needs four wands.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, sinking back into his pillows. “Go away, I’m tired.”

She stuck her tongue out at him but left the room. “The elf will bring you food,” she said as a parting shot. “Since you can’t summon it on your own.”

Which was the whole  _point_  of house elves but that didn’t stop him from glaring at her until she shut the door.

Sunday passed slowly. With one hand still bandaged—Fiendfyre burns healed at their own pace—he couldn’t read, so he had the elf bring in a radio and listened to various censored news reports.

The Ministry couldn’t hide its head in the sand forever. It was slowly becoming apparent to even the most oblivious wizard that someone was going around killing Muggleborns. The Death Eaters’ other activities were so far not being reported on, but Regulus knew that Bellatrix had several very public things planned and suspected that would not remain the case for much longer.

So far the official advice was “remain calm and let the Aurors handle it”. There was no mention—or even an implication—of the Order of the Phoenix, so clearly Regulus was now a member of two illegal vigilante organizations. How nice.

Late in the afternoon, an owl came in the window. He took the letter from it one handed and managed to fumble the thing open.

_I know there was a meeting Thursday. You did not meet me to report._

It was unsigned but he knew Bones’s handwriting.

Regulus bit his lip. He had genuinely forgotten to report in to Bones, but that wasn't something that had made a bit of difference to the Dark Lord before. He didn't know what Bones was like when angry, but perhaps a prompt reply would save him. “Elf!” He didn’t know the elf’s name and hadn’t asked. It was considered polite to avoid finding out more about someone’s servants than necessary. The elf popped in, twisting her ears in silence. “Quill and ink.”

He fussed with the bandage on his hand, torn between writing clumsily left handed or painfully right handed.

In moments a bottle of black ink and a plain goose feather quill appeared on the sideboard. He went with clumsy and managed to scrawl on the back of Bones’s note:  _Busy. Lestranges. Watch Diagon Monday._

The owl stuck one foot out imperiously, not impressed with his speed.

“You try writing with your off hand,” he told it, but held the letter out. The owl took it and was off out the window again.

Regulus leaned back against the headboard again. Bones wouldn’t be too upset now surely, not now that he’d tipped her off about Bella’s plan—whatever it was.

Only moments later, his satisfaction was interrupted by the arrival of Rodolphus. “I saw an owl leaving. You know anything about that?”

He felt very cold but forced up a careless smile. “Mother,” he said airily. “Gets worried if I haven’t seen her in a few days, and I was just telling her I was only staying with my cousins.” He had lied to the Dark Lord before, he could lie about this.

Rodolphus relaxed. “We’re just a little on edge here since, you know…”

“Yeah,” Regulus said. “Sorry. Would’ve warned you if I’d known she’d be sending a letter.”

He was sympathetic—a little—to Rodolphus’s position. Since Rabastan had cursed the other Healer trainee, he had been officially in hiding from the Ministry. Officially only: Everyone knew he was at Blackmere Manor, but the Ministry couldn’t get the right to search it and arrest him without the cooperation of Baron Reginald Lestrange, who wasn’t about to let a bunch of, in his words, jumped up peasants arrest his sons. So the property was being constantly watched by Aurors, who were no doubt furious that no one else in the family had done anything they could be arrested for. Yet.

Add the tension from having Bellatrix in the same house as the infamously quick tempered Reginald, and Regulus was rather glad he wasn’t in Rodolphus’s shoes. Then again, Dolph had married Bella, and voluntarily.

Rodolphus left, and Regulus spent the rest of the day tapping dials on the wireless.

* * *

His burns weren’t completely healed in the morning, but he was able to dress himself, feed himself, and make his own way downstairs to the entrance hall.

“Perfect timing,” Bellatrix said. “We’re on a schedule.”

Regulus gave her a sceptical look, having heard nothing of this. Bellatrix was definitely up to no good.

She batted her eyelashes. “Nothing for you to worry about, Reggie.” Bellatrix giggled. “But if anyone asks questions, we spent the whole day together.”

“Of course,” Regulus said dryly. “I love spending the day with my cousins.”

In retaliation, Bellatrix grabbed his elbow and Side-Along Apparated him straight through Blackmere Manor’s wards.

He put up with the nausea and the squeezing in order to elbow her right back when they arrived at the entry to Diagon Alley.

She gave him a falsely bright smile and said loudly, “Come along,  _Reggie_ , we’ve got to get you  _a new wand_!”

Regulus flinched and felt himself turn bright red. “Only in order to shove it up your ass,” he muttered.

Bellatrix grabbed him by the shoulder and steered him down the street. “I am doing you a favour,” she hissed in his ear.

“And I’m doing you one by providing a cover, so quit acting like we didn’t both spend seven years in Slytherin.” He jerked himself away. “It’s not  _that_  rare to lose a wand, anyway.”

She tugged on his hair, hard enough to hurt. "What about three?"

He seriously considered doing something to even the score there, but at some point it was best to just let Bellatrix win. “Let’s get this over with.”

Deny it though he wanted to, but most wizards used the same wand from age eleven till the day they died. Wizards who needed a second due to an incompatibility in their first were pitied, and those who lost one in battle were considered reckless. It was vanishingly rare for a wizard to have a mismatch and then lose the new wand. Going through three was unheard of.

Ollivander’s shop was open, although there was a note on the counter that said, in scratchy handwriting,  _Wait Here. In Back Working. G.O._

Regulus waited. There was no point in upsetting Ollivander—not when he was here so soon after the last time.

“Do try not to get into trouble?” Bellatrix asked innocently, before walking right back out of the shop.

He thought that was rather rich coming from her, but also he had attracted more than his fair share of incidents over the past year.

It seemed like forever before Ollivander appeared, just as wrinkled as ever. “Now this is a surprise, Regulus Black. Was there something wrong with the last wand?”

It felt like his face was on fire. “Well…I was practicing with a friend and there was an accident.”

Ollivander looked at him for a moment. “The friend who came in the shop with you?”

Regulus looked everywhere but at Ollivander. “Yes. Please, can I just…”

“You have matched twice now with dragon heartstring,” Ollivander said, turning away from him and towards the stacks of wand boxes. “Perhaps a third time will be the charm, yes?”

Regulus opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again. Wand lore might be complete rubbish, like Father had said, but it might not: Hadn’t the short wand never worked quite right? “I think so. I think my problem was with the wood.”

Ollivander waved a hand. “Yes, the apple never will suit you. Try this, blackthorn and dragon heartstring.”

He took the wand but badly wanted to know if this was some sort of pun. Nothing happened when he waved it, and he handed it back to Ollivander. “Why blackthorn?”

Ollivander turned sharply, raising an eyebrow. “You are interested in wand lore?”

“I am interested in wands,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “since I seem to be destined to go through a number of them.”

The wandmaker smiled and went back to his boxes. “Blackthorn is a warrior’s wand. But this one is not interested in you—I am afraid I think it does not find you stubborn enough for its tastes.”

Regulus had never once considered that wood could have tastes.

“This is elm, a very precise, elegant wood”

He waved the new wand to faint sparks.

Ollivander looked between him and the wand. “It will work for you; however, there are others here that will work better, and I suspect you will have need of that loyalty."

Regulus handed the wand back without hesitation. “There is a war on,” he said simply.

“A warrior's wand, hmm, yes, but perhaps something a little more complex than the blackthorn. This is not a simple war, certainly not for you. You will want a wand that is adaptable, and blackthorn is hardly that.” He had his head stuck between shelves so his voice was muffled, but Regulus paid close attention.

“Are you…” He didn’t want to say it out loud and be wrong. “Sorry, a passing thought.” But how much did Ollivander know? The question seemed to be left unanswered.

Ollivander returned with another box. “We all have those. Rest assured, there are few who care about wand lore, and fewer still who I would tell. Hawthorn. A combative wand, yes, but one exceptionally good at healing, and, dare I say, one suited for someone who does not quite know where to stand.”

Regulus closed his hand around it and felt the resulting sparks all the way up his spine. “This one.” Never mind that Ollivander was uncannily spot on, never mind that. This was  _his_  wand.

“Ten inches precisely,” Ollivander said smugly, “and you may have the best results with spells that have no incantation. Please do not blame me if the Ministry takes offence.”

His tongue felt like it was buzzing. Cautiously, he actually waved the wand and the room was lit up in emerald green and gold. “I am responsible for what I do with it,” Regulus said. “How much?"

He paid willingly and put his new wand much less willingly in a robe pocket. Thanking Ollivander, he exited the shop—hopefully for the last time—and ran straight into James Potter.

“Black?”

He squared his shoulders, scowling. “Potter. What are you doing here?”

Potter’s eyes flicked around wildly and his pause lasted too long to be honest. “The same thing you are!”

Regulus didn’t need to fake derisive laughter—it was only too easy, with his new wand still singing in his veins. “I just bought a new wand, Potter.” He drew it and was pleased to see Potter draw his automatically, and then flush as he realized his lie had been firmly demolished.

“How did you get here?” Potter asked after a moment. He wasn’t thick, unfortunately, although that would’ve made life easier for Regulus. “With no wand.”

Regulus tucked his wand back into a pocket. “Side Along Apparation. With my cousin,” he added, watching her approach through the crowd. “Who seems to have thought this would take longer.”

Bellatrix pouted at him, having evidently been close enough to hear his last comment. “Are you saying you wouldn’t’ve been bored senseless to watch someone else choose a wand?”

“No,” he told her, “but neither would I have left them alone in Diagon. These are ‘troubled times,’ after all.”

Bellatrix smiled at Potter. “Isn’t it nice that you found an Auror to protect you, then?”

Potter looked seriously torn between letting her think that and correcting her to Auror trainee.

Regulus beat him to it. “It’s Auror trainee Potter. He’s too young to have made full Auror yet.”

“The programme has been shortened,” Potter said crisply. “I take my quals next month.”

Regulus could think of four retaliations to that, but Bellatrix’s hand closed on his elbow and he shut his mouth.

“As delightful as that will be for wizarding Britain, we really are on a tight schedule,” Bellatrix said, starting to pull him away. “We need to leave now.”

Regulus blinked, let her pull him, and made eye contact with Potter the moment he realized what was going on. “ _Now_.”

Hopefully Potter understood what he was saying. Hopefully Bellatrix  _didn't_.

He followed Bellatrix back to the entrance to the alley. “Why not just Apparate—”

“Shut up and watch,” Bellatrix said quietly.

Regulus sighed, putting his back to the Leaky Cauldron with reluctance. “Wasn’t the whole point to have an alibi?”

Bellatrix jabbed him with her elbow.

He gave up. Bellatrix’s desire to see the consequences of her violence clearly outweighed any sort of sensible self-protection logic. “So we’ll give it a moment and then—”

Flourish and Blotts exploded.

There had been no warning, no cessation of activity or noise. One moment there was a three storey building, and then he was struggling to breathe, thrown back against the brick wall. His vision blurred, and by the time he could see again, the alley was filled with dust. He could see, yes, but his ears were buzzing and his head felt about to explode—just like the bookstore had, just like—oh God.

Past the ringing, distantly, he could hear screams.

He couldn’t hear whatever Bellatrix said after that, but she Disapparated and he managed to get his senses together enough to imitate her.

Regulus appeared just outside Grimmauld Place moments later and let himself inside only to sit on the entryway floor for an hour, shaking.


	13. The Web (4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have another excellent excuse: Turns out I can’t edit chapters while on a road trip, and that put me a week behind. Chapter 14 is done and edited and will, for once, be up on time, on September 10th—when I will be posting from Edinburgh, as I am moving there for graduate school.  
> Thanks again and always to noaacat, elizabethdove, and charamei.  
> TWs: None? Odd. Once again, next chapter will be worse.

Regulus was unsurprised, the next morning, to find  _The Daily Prophet_  running a front page article about the attack. The only real surprise was that they correctly identified Bellatrix as the perpetrator, and even that was only a surprise until he turned to page five and saw that Bellatrix had carved her name into the body of the Flourish and Blotts store clerk—because of course she had.

More carefully, he went back and reread the entire article. There was no mention of his name, or the names of any Aurors on duty. The only people to be named were Bellatrix and the unfortunate victims.

He shoved his breakfast away and went to owl Bones asking for a meeting that afternoon, before dressing for the daily lesson with Arcturus. His mother was gleeful when she read the headlines, loud enough to be heard from two floors away, so he had hope that Arcturus would take the news similarly, but no such luck. Arcturus met him with a blistering tirade on responsibility when the heir and the virtues of plausible deniability, and Regulus was only able to get a word in edgewise when Arcturus asked him outright about an alibi.

"I was in sight when the building went," Regulus said, forcing himself to speak about it. "And, immediately before that, James Potter saw me coming out of Ollivander's."

"There was no way for you to have been with Bellatrix in Flourish and Blotts?" Arcturus snapped, leaning over the desk.

Regulus thought about it for a moment. Everything else Bellatrix had done had at least been deniable. This was not, and would see her arrested if the Aurors could catch her. Moreover, it would see  _him_  arrested too, if he didn't have a solid alibi. "Only if I had gone with her before we went to Ollivander's. If there were other Aurors in the alley, they would have seen us. We Apparated in and went straight to get my wand, before she left me there. I found one, purchased it, and ran into Potter, which is where she rejoined me."

Arcturus examined the front page of the paper closely. "And if there were no other Aurors?"

He sighed. "Then there's no one to testify that I wasn't involved."

"You are lucky that Bellatrix made herself such an opportune target," Arcturus snapped. "Why in Merlin's name did you let her take you in the first place?"

Regulus's head snapped up. "What other choice did I have? I was wandless!"

"You could have Flooed here and let me take you. You could have summoned your elf and had  _him_  take you. You could have, Merlin save us, just Flooed straight to the Leaky Cauldron and gone without any sort of protection. Instead you went off with Bellatrix, and now there will be consequences."

He felt the blood drain from his face and pool in a cold lump in his stomach. The Wizengamot would be  _deeply_  upset, and he had made himself a target; something he could ill afford to be, as the only one who knew what exactly was around his mother's neck. "I..."

"You are used to reacting," Arcturus said sternly. "But you must be more careful. Do not think that because you are the Earl of Huntingdon that you will have my support if caught."

Sick, Regulus said quietly, "Yes, sir."

"This time you may very well walk away. There is a Wizengamot meeting on Friday and they are already crying for Bellatrix's arrest. They will not look for accomplices when she is so readily  _signing_  her  _name_."

Regulus shrank back in his chair, nodding. For the first time he saw Orion's anger in Arcturus.

"If you can be apologetic and naïve—it certainly helps here that you are on your  _fourth_  wand—they will let you off. But you cannot be accused again. Bloody Lord Macmillian thinks you should be brought in for questioning, did you know that? He  _Flooed_  me, the impertinent whelp, to say that you're a dog and a liar and he'll have you up before the Wizengamot. He won't, I told him that, and he knows well how many votes I have, but you hear me boy. You hear me well. There's no damned proof this time. To anyone it looks like you were an idiot, which is well enough since you were."

He scowled hard enough to make Regulus shut his mouth on any justification.

"But if, Lord help me, if you get  _caught,_ " Arcturus went on with all the force of the incoming tide, "if they come up with evidence against you, I will  _not_  see this family brought down because the last heir was an  _idiot_. I'll disown you quick as that and find someone else. You'd better believe me. The Wizengamot is going to give the Ministry all kinds of powers if it stops this crap." He sat down heavily. "Dammit. For Merlin's sake, always have an explanation. Lie. I don't care what you say, as long as you walk away, you hear? That upstart of yours, he has no  _respect_ , he has no sense of duty. He'll let you rot or get the Kiss before he moves himself to do anything, no matter who you are."

There was no need to tell Regulus that. "Yes, sir."

* * *

 

His meeting with Bones went better only in that he had already heard most of it.

“Your information was appreciated and went a long way to keeping casualties as low as they were,” she opened with, not quite looking at him. “But it is very awkward to be trying to keep your name out of the arrest warrants without explaining why, which I will not do.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said quietly. It was his second chewing-out of the day and in between he had returned to Grimmauld Place, only to be accosted by his mother, who was frothing at the mouth about Mudbloods, so he made a hasty departure for the Northumbria cottage, where at least no one would yell at him.

She sighed. “I can’t forbid you do anything since officially you’re not one of mine.  _Unofficially_ , it’d make my day much easier if you’d stay away from the Lestranges and anyone else who might go off and commit a major crime.”

“Yes, ma’am," he said, swallowing a sarcastic comment. He wasn't sure he knew many people who wouldn't commit a major crime at a moment's notice.

Bones paused and her lips twisted a bit. “This isn’t the first lecture you’ve gotten today, is it?”

He saw the irony himself and shook his head. “No. My grandfather got to me first.”

"Good for him—which is the last compliment he'll get from me." She gave him a direct glare. "You need to plan better—you need to plan at  _all_. You seem to think you can just act normally and use half-truths and justifications to wiggle out of everything, and that will only go so far.  _Try_  to come up with good—Ministry approved—reasons for being around Death Eaters, please."

"Yes, ma'am." He could only imagine what his friends would think to see him this subdued in front of a Hufflepuff.

She clasped her hands on the desk. "And what have you been telling your friends?"

Regulus shrugged slightly. "I don't think—my apologies, but I don't think you understand. My friends are all Death Eaters. They know the same as the Dark Lord. I'm spying for him, and have fooled you into thinking I wavered after Father's d-death."

From the look on her face, he thought Bones was pitying him. It made his skin crawl. "I suppose trying to keep out of trouble, then, will be difficult."

He looked away and shrugged again. It wasn't the worst assignment he'd ever been given, and at least he  _wanted_  to stay out of trouble, which was more than could be said for most of the things the Dark Lord asked of him.

"Black," she said quietly, "you won't do us any good in Azkaban. Don't get cocky just because both sides want you around. No one has a lock on the Wizengamot."

He wasn't cocky, Regulus thought, scuffing at the carpet with his foot. But he wasn't about to correct her. "Yes, ma'am." A pause. "Is that all?"

She had a strained expression on her face but he had no idea why. “Yes. I will see you Friday after the Wizengamot meeting."

"Of course," he said instantly, surprised. Wizengamot meetings were awful and his grandfather's debriefing only ever left him feeling more confused. Bones, however, had the ability to make some sense of it all—and as a bonus, he didn't need to lie to her.

Having a plan didn't make him feel any better about going home, though, especially when he thought about his mother, who chastised him for the slightest offense, and Bones, who had barely spoken harshly about his involvement in a major crime. He Flooed back to Grimmauld and spent a long time sitting in the kitchen, watching the elves work, and thinking about authority.

* * *

Between Tuesday and Friday, the only event of note was Walburga cornering Regulus in the library and giving him a half hour diatribe on the importance of blood purity that could have been ripped straight from the Dark Lord's recruitment speeches. He listened without comment and tried not to make eye contact, only partially because it encouraged her. In truth, and he put this memory in the lock in his mind with all the other memories of the Horcrux, it was because the whites of her eyes were bloodshot, and it reminded him too much of speaking with the Dark Lord.

The Wizengamot meeting was almost—almost—a relief after that. After the preliminaries, with Regulus sitting in the spectator section trying not to flinch any time someone spoke too loud, Dumbledore set them right to the matter of the explosion. It didn’t take very long for everyone to agree that Bellatrix was the cause.

Almost inevitably, therefore, the whole thing fell apart over what to do about it.

“There are now two Lestranges on the wanted list,” Duke Harfang Longbottom said forcibly. “How many more must be added before we expel the family?"

Baron Reginald Lestrange, two rows down and on the opposite side of the chamber, turned puce.

Before he could say anything, Duke Edward Selwyn stood. “I thought we had all agreed not to blame some for the sins of their family.” A good position for him to hold: His grandson was a few years older than Regulus and already in Azkaban for murdering a Muggleborn and her family, while his daughter was married to Harfang’s son.

There was a chorus of aye’s—mostly from those who either were Death Eaters themselves or had Death Eater relatives. Regulus was more interested in the others—had they genuinely been persuaded, or were they hiding Death Eater connections?

“At the very least, Baron, disown your sons,” Longbottom said, not in the least discouraged. “One a Death Eater, the other married to one. You can’t trust either one.”

The Baron of Strange stood slowly, either feeling his age due to recent events or—more likely—playing it up for sympathy. “Then put it to a vote, my lords. Strip me of my inherited rights, as this court has not done for two hundred years, or force me to strip my sons of theirs. But that is the only way you will get me to bend.”

“Damned Marcher lords,” Arcturus said, to Regulus’s complete surprise. “You haven’t been your own authorities for five hundred years and you’re still complaining at bending the knee.”

Baron Lestrange turned on him, hands clenched. “Look to your own house, traitor!"

Regulus knew enough of his family history to lurch forward, but stopped himself from doing anything eye-catching by grabbing the balcony rail with both hands and holding tight. Across the chamber, Hawthorne Parkinson, Earl of Gloucester, stood abruptly and looked to be struggling with the same problem.

Arcturus had put one hand inside his robes, surely reaching for a wand. "That was never proven," he snarled. "Apologize for the insult."

Baron Lestrange crossed his arms, sneering at Arcturus.

“You will both sit down,” Dumbledore said in a carrying tone. “Baron Lestrange, the Blacks have proven their loyalty to the crown more than once in living memory. It is time to let old insults die. Duke Black, your enthusiasm in defending your family’s honour is not necessary. Refrain from such in the future.”

Arcturus and Baron Lestrange sat warily, still eyeing each other. There were any number of reasons for the Lestranges and the Blacks to dislike each other, bonds of marriage notwithstanding: The Lestranges were Welsh while the Blacks were—at the root, as Regulus didn't know a one who had actually been raised in the county—Cornish, the Lestranges were poor gentry who happened to have a title while the Blacks were kingmakers and had been for centuries. But originally, the problem had been that the Lestranges were on one side of the Wars of the Roses, the Yorkist side, and the Blacks were on both sides, often at the same time. 

The man who had married into the Blacks and taken his wife's name in return for Black support, Henry Holland, had only needed the support in the first place because he had just failed to double-cross the Lancastrians, and, while most wizarding families were Yorkist, no one liked a traitor. Old grudges died hard, or not at all, in the Wizengamot, so the Blacks had a—not undeserved, Regulus had to admit—reputation as conniving backstabbers who were out for nothing but their own good. This was an accurate description of most of the Wizengamot, but only the Blacks and a few other families were willing to admit to it.

Complicating the issue, of course, was that according to the Blacks, Holland had backed the correct people at the correct times and was simply preternaturally good at picking when to switch, and anyone who accused them of being traitors would be on the wrong end of a wand. Skeptic or no, Regulus wasn't about to sit back and let people insult his family—even if the insults were most likely true.

Baron Titus Flint stood. “Chief Warlock, the Duke of Exeter also insulted my position.”

Flint was Baron of Flint, and he and Baron Lestrange were the most prominent Marcher lords remaining. Their Muggle counterparts may have been reduced, and legally there was no difference between Flint and anyone else on the Wizengamot, but the Marcher lords remembered the years when they had had the power of royalty in their own domains.

Dumbledore ignored him. “If we might return to the issue at hand, might I remind the Duke of York that the Wizengamot can only petition the monarch to add or remove inherited positions? The position of Baron Strange cannot be removed from the Wizengamot by vote, no matter how deep your personal dislike.”

Duke Longbottom looked like he would rather not have acknowledged that.

Baron Lestrange looked smug.

Geoffrey Abbott, Duke of Gloucester, stood. “My lords, surely we can all agree that Bellatrix Lestrange must be left to the Aurors? With that said, the question remains what to do about the succession of Barony Strange.”

Rather abruptly, Baron Lestrange lost the smug look.

“Whether Rodolphus is himself a Death Eater becomes irrelevant: He failed to stop his wife from committing murder. Would you have such a man sit on these benches?” Abbott continued.

Bones was visibly debating whether it was worth defending Bellatrix in order to point out that men were not responsible for the actions of their wives.

Fortunately for her, Baron Flint was already standing. “Then what, sir, should be done with me, who could not keep my son from committing the same crime?” Tiberius Flint was on the run from the Aurors for flaying a Muggle family to death—Regulus had met him a few times. Not a bright Death Eater, but certainly a creative one.

Baron Abbott did not appear to have considered this approach.

Bones stood, giving both Abbott and Flint stern glares. Amusingly, Abbott flinched. “Since we cannot condemn a man on so specious a charge, perhaps try the one of not informing the Aurors where Bellatrix and Rabastan Lestrange are staying? It is, after all, an open secret that they are at Blackmere Manor. All the Aurors need are directions to find it."

Regulus shrank and hoped only that no one was paying too much attention to him.  _He_  knew where Blackmere Manor was.

After a moment—the Wizengamot was silent, apparently no one else had considered this approach—he realized that if Bones had wanted that information then she could have asked him on Tuesday, or by owl at any point since. And she hadn’t. Perhaps she didn't consider Bellatrix important to the war effort. Or perhaps she felt it would jeopardize his position.

Bones gave Baron Lestrange a vicious smile. “Chief Warlock, I move to put this to a vote: A motion to censure Rodolphus Lestrange for not reporting on the location of his wife and brother when both are wanted criminals. With criminal proceedings to follow should Rodolphus incriminate himself.”

“Motion seconded,” Duke Longbottom said quickly.

Baron Lestrange looked furious, face red, but apparently recognized that this was, literally, the very least the Wizengamot could do. Dumbledore looked…serene. Was this not what he had wanted? Had he thought they could get something stronger through the Wizengamot? “All those in favour, say aye.”

There was a chorus—even from those like Flint and Selwyn, who no doubt recognized that the situation could have turned out much worse.

“All those against, say nay.”

A much quieter chorus, led by Baron Lestrange.

“The motion is passed,” Dumbldore said, nodding to the secretary. 

Elspeth Fawley, Earl of Atholl, stood before Dumbledore could say anything more. "And what about her accomplice?"

Dumbledore looked sharply at her, then sat back down and waited for her to continue.

"Bellatrix Lestrange entered Diagon with another—Regulus Black. Why has he not been arrested? He is hardly hiding." Fawley was focused on Arcturus, not Regulus, but he slunk down in his seat anyway. "Arrest  _him_  and interrogate him about the Death Eaters."

To his surprise and relief, Arcturus stood the moment Fawley finished speaking. "I should think the Wizengamot needs a  _little_  more evidence than 'appeared in public with his cousin'."

Fawley hadn't bothered to sit, and stared Arcturus down. " _I_  should think," she said, imitating Arcturus's crisp accent, "that your heir would have more sense than to associate with known criminals!"

"Now, Elspeth," said Selwyn, "only Rabastan was a known criminal at the time, and he wasn't present. Bellatrix was an  _unknown_  criminal. Surely the boy cannot be blamed for that."

Regulus thought it might be better to be at Grimmauld with his mother. Arcturus had told him to come, saying that it would look better for him to be present, but no, it just made him look  _stupid_.

Fawley was bright red with anger—had she lost someone in the explosion? Regulus didn't know the victims well enough to say for sure. "Anyone with sense knew that Bellatrix Lestrange was a Death Eater, and cleverer than most too. But so. Say that he didn't know. Extend him the benefit of the doubt," she spat, "and then ask, what was he doing in Diagon in the first place? What urgent errand did he have there with Bellatrix Lestrange?"

He jolted in his seat at that, because he could answer that honestly—well, mostly honestly, at any rate—but he wasn't allowed to speak unless summoned by the Wizengamot.

Bones stood again, making his heart lurch. What  _was_  she going to say? "I think I can answer those questions, if I may speak in my capacity as Head Auror. Chief Warlock?" She looked at Dumbledore, who gave her a tiny nod and then waved to the others to sit. "Thank you. I had Aurors stationed in Diagon immediately prior to the attack and one of them mentioned Regulus Black's presence. Auror-trainee James Potter, in his report, said that he met with Lord Black coming out of Ollivanders. Black had been buying a new wand, a process no shorter now than it was for any of us. After a few exchanges, Bellatrix Lestrange arrived, and Black went off with Lestrange. It was not long after they departed that Flourish and Blotts exploded. Alastor Moody saw Lestrange enter Flourish and Blotts alone, and she exited several minutes before the explosion. The spells she set were on a delay, and she set them alone."

Fawley was scowling but made no move to stand.

"Furthermore," Bones said, looking at Selwyn. "Regulus Black came to me personally this week and gave a statement matching what I had heard from James Potter. He did so for the stated reason of clearing his name of malice, if not naïveté. I would imagine that to be the same reason for his presence today."

Regulus couldn't bear to look at Arcturus—who hadn't known he met with Bones—but he was, beneath waves of embarrassment, glad that Bones had given the impression the meeting had been a one time thing.

After a long silence, Falwey stood again. "I accept the statement of Lady Bones, and find Regulus Black unwisely trusting, but not a criminal."

He did look up at that, and saw Fawley looking abashed. It made him soften towards her, a little, for being ready to change her mind.

Unfortunately, not all were as willing as Fawley. Duncan Macmillian, Earl of Ross and Lord of the Isles—and the one who, according to Arcturus, disliked Regulus the most—stood. "And we should just accept that? Come now, Bones, he could have helped Lestrange with the assembly and let her take the fall. We've seen it before. Black seems to have a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time—or have we all forgotten the incident last summer, where two Aurors went missing at the Black family residence in London?"

Seating herself, Bones said crisply, "He gave assurances that satisfied me."

"It is not illegal to be stupid," said Flint, who should know. "I thought we had put to rest the matter of condemnation via family relation, for that seems to me all that your accusation rests on."

Flint and Macmillian exchanged glares but neither seemed willing to speak further.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Let this stand as a warning then, to Regulus Black and any others in attendance, that these are dangerous times and even family cannot be trusted. I rule with Bones: Regulus Black committed no crime and, surely, has now been frightened enough. All those in favour?"

There was a chorus of sometimes-reluctant aye's, but no one spoke in dissent.

Regulus thought he might collapse. He was safe, but it was terrifyingly clear that this was his last chance. The next time he was associated with Death Eaters, he would end up in front of an Auror for questioning—or worse, Crouch Sr.

After that, the drag of regular Wizengamot business just left him jittery and looking for an exit. He nearly bolted from the benches when Dumbledore dismissed the room, but was caught before he could make good his escape.

Duke Harfang Longbottom grabbed his elbow and looked at him in displeasure. "Lord Huntingdon, a word." It wasn't a request.

Regulus shrank away. "Your grace. I thought—the Wizengamot did just find—I assure you, I had no idea what she was planning, I really did need a new wand," he thought about showing it as proof, but thought that might be misconstrued, "and she offered to Side-Along me."

To his relief—and then to his dawning horror, as he realized how badly this could go—Baron Ferrous Avery inserted himself in the conversation. "This makes what, your third wand, Huntingon? You do seem to go through them."

Oh, Regulus thought, no one knew that the one he'd just replaced wasn't the one from school. "I don't  _mean_ to."

Duke Longbottom was staring at him strangely. “Naïve  _and_  careless. Hmm.”

“They’ll have to call you Regulus the Reckless.” Ferrous Avery was sixty, but had the composure and bearing of someone a third his age. “And you let  _Bellatrix_  take you?”

Regulus was rather wishing he'd  _walked_  to Diagon, but too late now. "She offered."

Baron Avery clapped Regulus on the shoulder. “Can’t blame you for trusting family. Can’t blame you."

“Perhaps we should start,” Duke Longbottom said, glowering at Avery.

Regulus pulled his arm free. "I  _thought_  since she's my cousin, it would be fine. I didn't  _want_  to make a big deal of it! Silly me!"

Avery grinned, apparently oblivious—if he were as clueless as he faked being, the Dark Lord would never have let him in the Inner Circle. “I’m just happy we haven’t lost another young man to the Dark Lord in you, Huntingdon.”

"Of course not," Regulus said on impulse, and then frantically tried to explain himself. "Grandfather says—if we're going to support blood purity, we shouldn't be  _violent_  about it. That makes us no better than Muggles."

Longbottom looked disgruntled. “I wanted a  _private_  word, Lord Huntingdon.”

Regulus blinked and wished vainly for his grandfather to appear—or his mother. Or the Dark Lord. Or anyone. “Of course, Your Grace.”

He followed Longbottom to a private nook, out of the way but well in sight of other Wizengamot members. For both our protection, Regulus thought sourly.

“I spoke with my grandson,” Longbottom said, facing towards the wall—so he could not be lip read, Regulus realized. “You were present at Ronald Weasley’s christening. This week was not the first time you spoke with Lady Bones. What are you playing at?"

Oh God. Yes, Longbottom would know, wouldn't he, or at least suspect—of  _course_  other people talked to their own damn family, it was the Blacks who were the weird ones about it—and Regulus had to say something convincing, there were too many people around if he really botched it. "I don't—think—the Death Eaters are going to win. So. That in mind. Why not survive?"

He wasn’t at all sure what that look on Duke Longbottom’s face meant. "So you're working with Bones?"

"That's—that's not quite..." He tried to get his thoughts in order. "I want,  _need_  to make reparations. Evidence. But if they think I've left them..." He clamped his jaw shut around the final admission:  _I don't want to die_.

Longbottom still looked suspicious, but not quite as hostile. "You had better hope the war continues this way, then," he said in a whisper. "If you try to double cross us, I'll see you dead."

If that was the only situation in which Longbottom would murder him, Regulus thought he'd come out ahead, honestly. "I think, between us, you'll be fine there. Sir."

Straightening, Longbottom nodded. "Take care, then, Lord Huntingdon."

He turned and walked away, leaving Regulus to mutter some appropriate reply.


	14. The Prophecy (1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t actually apologize for this being late, because in between ch13 and now I moved to the UK and started graduate school. I am basically in over my head on every single level, but I also get to learn things and do stuff that 4 year old me would have died to get the chance to do, so that’s amazing. For example, I can’t post in 2 weeks because I will be at an overnight stay at a wildlife park.
> 
> Best guess for post date is October 1. I’m going to kick my betas now and we’ll aim for that. I really could not do this without them, so huge thanks to noaacat and sabreprincess.
> 
> TWs: Discussion of infanticide, canon typical racism, and physical abuse of an adult child. It gets lighter after that.

 

Without any warning, it seemed, it was May. Helped by Bones, and—unwittingly—Arcturus, Regulus started making weekly visits to the Ministry, starting up conversations with low level flunkies and collecting information on them and their more powerful relatives. He knew he was mostly imitating what Lucius Malfoy had already done in building an intelligence network, but unlike Malfoy, he wanted to use this information for everyone's good. So he chatted up secretaries and assistants, and then put his influence as Earl of Huntingdon to work resolving minor disputes. It was of little use, of course, to have Fatimah Shafiq owe him a favour after he resolved an incident involving import restrictions and ashwinder eggs if he didn't also know that Fatimah's second cousin, Ahmed, who was Earl of Westmoreland thanks to some shenanigans with debts and inheritances, was himself in a great deal of debt to the goblins and was looking for a way to resolve it. Regulus didn't have the answer for that, yet, but Westmoreland was unaffiliated and so therefore highly courted by both sides. Sure, he could outright buy Ahmed, but that would give away that he was a real player now, and the longer everyone believed that Regulus was just the naive and careless son of an ancient house, the safer he would be.

As far as the Ministry as a whole was concerned, the Death Eaters were an annoying but ultimately powerless threat—mostly a threat to people who didn't matter, like Mudbloods and their families. Everyone tried to pretend the Dark Lord didn't exist, or wasn't  _that_  terrifying, which was an attempt doomed to failure when no one would say his name but that wasn't Regulus's problem, and that the only thing to be concerned about was how many of the younger generation weren't employed. There were a few, mostly in Law Enforcement, who thought that the correct response was to arrest everyone and let the Dementors sort them out, and since Bagnold had won her election after all, that mentality was slowly increasing. If it weren't for Bones, Regulus would think there wasn't a single person in the Ministry with a reasonable attitude towards the Death Eaters.

The third weekend in May found Regulus compiling notes for his own purposes for once, not for any superior, but simply because he was finding it hard to keep track of who he knew now and who thought what about him. His mother was in her rooms where she—or the Horcrux—had been steadily gathering all of the Dark magic books from the library, an activity that Regulus was watching with concern.

He was midway through notes on the Junior Undersecretary to the Minister when Kreacher popped in. “Master Regulus, there is someone at the door.”

His stomach sank. Someone at the door, someone Kreacher wouldn't name—and Kreacher had come for  _him_ , not Walburga. This had 'Death Eater business' written all over it. "Have Dobby hold them in the sitting room, I'll be right down."

Kreacher bowed and disappeared.

Throwing on a semi-formal robe over his loose house robes, Regulus went down to see who it was.

In the sitting room, Dobby took one look at him and disappeared. Standing by the fireplace, Severus looked up at him morosely, hair hanging in wet strands around his face.

Regulus came to a dead halt. Severus hadn’t had access through the wards, but had known where the house was since a February meeting had put Regulus enough on edge to reveal the location. He knew Severus would not come here lightly, if for no other reason than his own pride. “Good day, Severus,” he said, sitting.

“We will need to speak to him,” Severus said without preamble, “directly. And bluntly. He’s not thinking straight.”

Regulus breathed out hard and sat down. “Well. Not straight by his standards?”

Severus nodded. “Incredibly.” He stared at the ceiling. “In early April I was set to trail the Headmaster. He presented it as a test. He wants me to be the hidden double agent to your…”

“Yes,” Regulus interrupted, not particularly needing to hear more of Severus's views on the idiocy of telling everyone you were a spy. “I see. And he wanted to find out if you  _could_ —”

“Yes, well," Severus said, cutting him off in turn. "I followed the Headmaster into a job interview. For a new Divination professor.”

Regulus had a horrible sinking feeling. “A prophecy?” Authentic prophecies were rarer than basilisks, and at least as dangerous.

Severus made a muffled affirmative noise. “Specifically, about his fall.”

 _Well now_. “And you came here because…”

"Because last fall we had an interesting conversation after you were poisoned." It was the first time Severus had ever mentioned their quick exchange last autumn, at the first meeting Regulus attended after the cave. "If you're no longer interested, I can leave."

Regulus gave him a sharp look. "No, no, by all means, go ahead. You said about his fall,  _what_  about his fall?"

There was something cold and dead in Severus’s eyes. “The prophecy speaks of an infant born this July. He plans to kill them.”

"Narcissa,” Regulus said, already nauseous. Merlin, Cissy was going to  _murder_  him.

Severus shook his head. “The prophecy spoke of parents who defied him three times. Lily would fit.”

And Alice Marshall, Regulus remembered. Something that the Dark Lord had surely realized too. His stomach felt like lead. “So he’s going to…what, put more effort into killing the Potters? He’s been after them since James Potter drew blood on him fresh out of Hogwarts.”

“He…” Severus looked down at his hands. “He was frothing. He isn’t thinking about this as an opportunity. More like paranoia gone wild.”

Regulus wasn’t so sure he was thinking about it as an opportunity either. A prophecy about the person who could kill the Dark Lord? What did that mean for the Horcrux? “Tell me what you heard.”

Miraculously, Severus didn’t protest this. “I only heard the beginning. But: The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies. At which point I was caught eavesdropping and thrown out.” He looked disgusted at his own clumsiness.

Reg had bigger problems. “A little vague, isn’t it? Any child born at the end of July?”

“The parents have to have fought the Dark Lord, Reg,” Severus snapped. “That narrows it down quite a bit.”

“Not as much as you think.” Regulus pulled his wand and quickly wrote the lines in air. “Defied, not fought."

Severus frowned at the lines. “Where are you going with this?"

Regulus wanted a drink. Spying was one thing, planning how to end the war using unborn children was quite another. “The  _Malfoys_  nearly qualify. If he’s planning to wipe out any applicable child…”

This threw Severus. “Lucius?”

“Narcissa. She refused to take the Mark. And she did me a favour this last autumn that himself would not be pleased to find out about.” Christ, if her child was the one, she would give him ten kinds of hell.

Severus’s eyes flickered back and forth, a sure sign he was going through memories. “One of her incidents of morning sickness kept Lucius back from a mission in April. The Oxford one.”

He hadn’t heard about that, and Regulus couldn’t keep his surprise from his face. He’d known that there was a mission targeting Oxford University, and had been aware that Lucius hadn’t gone on it, but not that he had been  _supposed_  to. Not that Narcissa was keeping her husband away from high risk missions. “Three.”

Groaning, Severus stared at the ceiling. “We need to—what do you want to happen here? What outcome do you want?”

Regulus thought of Walburga and the Horcrux, and he drew his wand. " _Muffliato_. My mother is upstairs so we'd best speak quickly."

Severus looked at him out of the corner of his eye. "If you wish me to go first, you will be waiting a very long time."

"I have given assurances to Bones," Regulus said quietly. "When the war is over, I will be protected."

Bringing his hands down to his lap, Severus sat up straight. "I expected the prophecy to shake him. I did not expect… He was raving about killing every woman with child. Just to be safe. I don’t think he cares about any outcome other than his own immortality. Not even blood purity.”

"Herod," Regulus said quietly. "Only looking out for his own skin." He wasn't sure what Severus knew or suspected, but for his part, Regulus doubted the Dark Lord had only the one Horcrux.

They stared at each other for a long moment.

Regulus spoke first, not wanting Severus to have the chance to make assumptions. It was all well and good for the other Death Eaters to know he was passing information both directions, and he trusted that Severus was as concerned about the Dark Lord's state of mind as he was. But it was another thing entirely to let Severus know that he wanted the Dark Lord very, very dead on a personal level and was working to achieve that, and that he was even starting to doubt the righteousness of their cause, leader aside. "We can't wait for him to come to his senses," he said.

"No." Severus, for once, looked anxious. "He's going to need to..."

So they had come to it. "Die."

Severus flinched, and only the fact that Regulus had come to terms with this months ago—had it really been almost a year?—kept him from doing the same. "Who's going to-?"

"Kill him?" Regulus said, because the other possible conclusion was  _replace him_  and he really didn't want to talk about that. That way lay uncomfortable conversations about beliefs and opinions that Regulus wasn't sure he held anymore.

Severus rubbed his face. "No, that one I know. The damned  _prophecy_." He sighed, not looking at Regulus. "We need to plan. Make contacts. So that when—"

"I'll be damned if I let a  _child_  near him," Regulus said, surprising himself. It was true, and the prophecy galled him, but he hadn't intended to say such to Severus.

"The prophecy was quite clear," Severus said, twisting his lips. "Since I was the one to hear it."

Regulus ignored this. "He won't hesitate before killing a child, you know that, but there's no—a  _child_ , Sev."

Severus looked like he wanted to say something, but shut his mouth and shook his head.

"Look, you and I can come up with reasons for him to delay until August," Regulus said after a minute. "Then the child is at least born and we can work out who it is."

Severus wasn't paying attention, though. He had frozen in the chair and gone pale.

Chest cold, Regulus took down the charm and turned to look. Behind him was Walburga, looking furious.

"Hello, Mother," Regulus said cautiously.

She didn't have her wand out, which was a good sign, but her eyes were clearly red in the iris, and if Severus noticed—if he  _asked_ —Regulus didn't know what he'd say. "Who is this filth?"

Severus's lips were tight but he said nothing.

"Severus Snape. The Dark Lord ordered him to tutor me." If he said the truth, if he was honest, if he had answers for all of her questions, maybe then,  _maybe_...

Walburga sneered at both of them. It wasn't her expression: normally if she was upset enough to show, she went straight to rage. But Severus didn't know that, he'd only met her in passing. "Leave us. You are not welcome here."

Severus looked furious, but when Regulus looked pleadingly at him, he stood stiffly and left without a word.

Walburga turned on Regulus the moment he was gone. "How  _dare_  you bring that  _filth_  into my  _home_?" she shrieked.

Now that was his mother through and through. Regulus shuddered, and let his wand fall to the floor. It was easier if he was unarmed. It was also easier when his mother was his  _mother_ , instead of a strange mix of the Dark Lord in his mother's body. At least as herself, he knew what punishments were coming.

"A  _disgrace_ ," she said, almost frothing at the mouth, "as bad as your brother! I should disown you, should make you live on your own, you've no right to this family." She stopped and breathed heavily for a minute, and then said, cool and calm, "He is of lesser blood and will not return here. Am I understood?"

Regulus's mouth was dry. "Yes, mother." He didn't dare make eye contact, but looked down and past her, so he could still see if she was about to move for him.

She didn't take a step, but she did draw her wand. "Some lessons need to be painful to be learned properly," she said.

Even if it was a good idea to move, he couldn't. That was not his mother, but it was the Dark Lord, and Regulus was still in the frantic, edged way of a rabbit, because there was no point to running when something meaner and scarier was already in the room with you.

There wasn't a word, there was just pain, splitting across his face like a whip, like  _fire_ — He yelped because it was easier than keeping it in, because it was always worse if he kept quiet.

Another strike of firewhip _pain_ , and he didn't know if it was his mother or his Dark Lord, because they both liked that spell, and did it really  _matter_? He kept his hands away from his face and his eyes on the floor and cried out at the right times, and when it was done, when she went away still spitting about halfbloods, he picked up his wand and went to his room and—cried. Silently.

* * *

 

Regulus left Grimmauld Place the next morning for his meeting with Arcturus and didn't go back for two weeks. He knew it was only making the eventual punishment worse, but the thought of it made him nauseous—made him sick one morning—and he couldn't bring himself to end it. So he stayed at Teignbridge, or at Hunden Close, or one mutually awful night at Severus's place in some Muggle town, and tried to forget what was living at Grimmauld.

What. Not who, not really.

He knew the Horcrux was possessing his mother. He suspected there was no way to separate them, and even if there was, a horrible traitorous part of him didn't want to, because that meant if he killed the Horcrux then he wouldn't have to worry about Walburga anymore. Which made him feel faint and dizzy, and like there might be something to self-flagellation after all. And Christ, even if he wanted to, there was no way he would be safe if she knew he destroyed the Dark Lord's Horcrux.

The two weeks of exile only ended because he sat down with a calendar and yes, the baby should be fine now, if the due date was originally mid-July. There were potions for things like this, but some of the ingredients were prohibited, so even Severus didn't have them. Regulus went back to Grimmauld in the middle of the night, praying his mother was asleep, grabbed the ingredients, and snuck out again.

The potion itself was easy enough, and two weeks after the event was enough time to let the welts fade on his face—although he had gotten comments from a handful of Death Eaters and from Bones, none of whom were easy to dissuade—so the first weekend in June, Regulus made an appearance at Malfoy Manor.

A house elf met him at the door, looking rumpled. "Master is not home."

"That is not an issue," Regulus said, making sure his robes hung correctly. "I'm here to see your mistress."

The house elf gave him a judgmental look. “Mister Black will wait here,” he said, and vanished.

Regulus waited patiently. Whatever Narcissa was up to, he was sure he would hear about it later—or soon, at length, probably. Pregnancy was not doing her patience any favours.

Sure enough, the elf popped back. “Mistress will see you,” he said, sounding disgruntled. “Mistress is in her rooms.”

“Thank you, ah—” He scrambled for a name, recognized the scowl as one given by a traditional elf who did not like recognition, and headed into the manor.

Narcissa had dictated that she receive her own suite separate from Lucius’, and because Lucius was an infatuated idiot, he had agreed. Regulus assumed they still slept together, but Narcissa ran her sewing-and-gossip circle from the privacy of her own rooms where her husband couldn’t accidentally spy on her for the Dark Lord.

She was not in her sitting room.

Regulus frowned and walked down the hall to her bedroom. The door was closed, and there was a Healer standing in front of it.

"Black." Decimus Selwyn was the one and only Healer recruited by the Death Eaters, although if he was being accurate, Decimus was really the only Death Eater recruited by the Healers. He and Regulus tolerated each other, as Decimus was also in line for his family's titles. "All of her visitors have to undergo a series of cleaning charms.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “Even her doting husband?” Narcissa had been paranoid about the pregnancy, but nothing so far as this.

Decimus looked very smug. " _All_  of her visitors. She will be delighted to explain," he said dryly.

Regulus could just imagine. No doubt there was some motherhood article that talked about the evil dust off the street, or what have you, and the horrors it could wreak upon your unborn infant. "Very well," he said, hoping that whatever Decimus was going to do wouldn't turn up the potion in his pocket.

It didn't, but by the time Decimus rather gleefully lowered his wand, he felt cleaned to within an inch of his life. Running his tongue over slightly-sensitive teeth, Regulus entered his cousin’s bedroom.

Narcissa was lying in bed, propped up by pillows and with a heavy duvet covering her below the collarbone. Under the edge of the duvet, lying on her sternum, was—  
If he had been holding the potion, he would’ve dropped it; as it was, he made a distinctly embarrassing noise.

Even paler than usual, Narcissa looked very pleased. “Hello, cousin. Let me introduce you to the newest Malfoy.”

Regulus inched closer. He had been the youngest Black for his entire life, and personally thought the tiny white figure wouldn’t be up for the position.

He’d had minimal experience with newborns before, but this one seemed too small and too quiet, just a shockingly pale head with a thin covering of transparent hair. "Greetings, I am Regulus Arcturus Black, Earl of Huntingdon” he said, and almost immediately felt embarrassed.

Narcissa smirked at him. “This is Draco Malfoy, who will be acknowledged as Lucius’s heir when he can spend more than a minute away from me.” She paused, and raised an eyebrow at him. “You can come closer, you know. I won’t bite.”

Regulus restrained any comments on Cissy’s violence or lack thereof and stepped cautiously closer to his cousin. Cousins. “He’s early,” he said, standing next to Narcissa’s bed.

“Selwyn says he refused to stay in,” she said fondly, running a hand over her son’s head.

“Oh,” Regulus said, and then, “Guess I didn’t need to come.” Which was a remarkably stupid thing to say, he realized a heartbeat after it left his mouth, because if he  _could_  get out of this room without Narcissa knowing his original plan, then he probably  _should_ , except that was already a lost cause.

Narcissa folded her hands over the lump that was Draco and gave him a look worthy of McGonagall. “So if you didn’t see his name on the tapestry—” Regulus’s heart sank— “why then are you here?”

As terrifying as Narcissa was when she found out you were trying to interfere in her life, she was a thousand times more terrifying if she found out because you were a sloppy liar. Very quiet, he pulled the vial out of his pocket and tried to explain.

* * *

 

June passed with an increasing horror for Regulus: The Dark Lord, never stable, was raving near-continuously about overthrows and could not be rerouted onto any topic other than who was pregnant and when the due date was. It reminded him weirdly of talking with Narcissa, although Narcissa was focused on who Draco's classmates would be and the Dark Lord was focused on...other matters. That was his punishment for trying to interfere with her pregnancy; he had to sit and listen and offer pointers on who Draco should make friends with and potential future wives. Then there was his mother, or the Dark Lord, whoever. She kept going out to tea, or so she said, but Regulus was increasingly sure the Horcrux was looking for allies—or victims, or whatever a fragment of the Dark Lord's soul wanted with other people—because the older Death Eaters sometimes asked Regulus if his mother was okay, their wives hadn't seen her lately.

At any rate, Regulus was having fond daydreams of studying for the NEWTs.

At the tag end of June, Regulus came to the uncomfortable realization that he hadn't told Bones about the prophecy and it probably fell under things he was supposed to tell her about. Very abashed—and looking for anywhere to be other than Grimmauld Place—Regulus turned up at Hereford Manor. “There’s something I didn’t—forgot—didn’t share with you.”

Bones had a copy of her Head Auror’s office on the first floor of the manor, and Regulus had found his way there without issue. Even at ten in the morning on a Saturday, she could be found there going through the reams of paperwork the war seemed to produce.

“What sort of something?” she said absently, signing a form with a scribble.

Regulus sat across from her and read the form upside down.  _Warrant for the arrest of Christopher Brodey_ , and then Bones moved it away and cleared her throat. He knew Brodey, distantly, a slapdash Charms specialist. Not Marked, but in Lucius’s cell. He wondered if it was his information that was leading to Brodey’s arrest.

“Black,” Bones said, much more firmly. “What did you come here for?”

He’d sort of been hoping to avoid it after all, but the longer he put it off the more embarrassing and potentially disastrous it would be for him when it came out. “Sev heard the prophecy. The one the new Divination professor told the Headmaster.”

She had gone horribly, terribly pale he saw when he looked up.

“The Dark Lord knows. I thought…I knew you knew it, but I was…I don’t know.” Prophecies seemed like things which should be kept secret, and then he had realized that the Headmaster must have told Bones, and somehow in there he had never thought that Bones wouldn’t know.

“So. This would be why you have been distracted.” She was fidgeting with her quill, one of her rare tells.

He wanted to sink through the floor. “Would it have made a difference?” The week before he had given last minute news of two simultaneous raids. The Order had blocked the one on Godric’s Hollow, but a Muggle family with one school age child and a wife eight months pregnant were all killed.

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “To that Muggleborn family? No, it wasn’t a surprise. We just didn’t have the people to cover them. We had to make a call between them and Godric’s Hollow. She sighed. “Not that I didn’t wish you had come here with some other news.”

"I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Bones put the quill down, finally. “Be mad, Black. Be very, very mad. And be thankful we have a way to predict him now. But don’t waste time being sorry.”

She turned him loose again, but he spent the rest of the day thinking about that. He was surprised to find there was anger there, somewhere under the fear. Something else to be worried about, he figured, and went to bed.

* * *

Draco’s christening was very nearly as interesting as Ronald Weasley’s. The audience was almost completely different, and Regulus noted the exceptions to report to one side or the other.

Everyone who might question it had been given an explanation for what  _he_  was doing at both parties, although Regulus had privately told the younger Avery that he was seeking a wife and wanted to expand his options—a little confusion couldn’t hurt.

Narcissa looked positively Marian, dressed in a pale blue silk dress and carrying Draco in the heirloom Malfoy christening dress.

Regulus, to his quiet, private delight had been named as godfather alongside Andrew Wilkes—not noble, but extremely wealthy and quite good with a wand—and Griselda Macnair as godmother. It was supposed to have been Bellatrix, but since she was officially wanted since the Diagon Alley incident, Narcissa was equally officially not speaking with her and had named Griselda as godmother. Griselda, neither titled nor wealthy, was visibly delighted with this outcome.

He wondered whether to point out to Bella—in the back of the room, poorly disguised—that if she was anywhere half as clever as Griselda, she too could walk around in public after murdering people. Of course, Bellatrix was three times as deadly as Griselda, so perhaps that was a factor.

It was interesting, verging on hilarious, to watch the collection of senior Blacks converge on Narcissa and Draco and have to be individually pried off and redirected by Lucius—looking proud, but when did he not?

Regulus avoided all but his essential tasks and eventually congregated with his co-godparents near the alcohol.

“To think that we wanted a hold on Malfoy,” Griselda was saying to Wilkes. “Hello, Black. New drinking game: Take a sip anytime you see someone you last saw Monday.”

Monday: the last Death Eater meeting, mostly memorable for Walden getting so drunk he nearly cursed his own foot off. “I think I’ll pass, thanks. What’s this about a hold on Lucius?”

Griselda drained her glass and grabbed another one. “He’s never around for clean-up. Some of us,” she jerked her head at Wilkes, and then looked over at Bellatrix—still lurking—with a nod, “think he’s trying to keep himself clean. But now there’s the three of us as godparents for his son, so he’d better toe the line.”

Regulus couldn’t decide which was more unbelievable: That Lucius Malfoy was suspected of being a traitor to the Death Eaters, that Regulus  _wasn’t_ , or that Griselda thought an appropriate response was to threaten her new godson. “I think some of us have public faces to maintain, and as long as we obey the Dark Lord, I don’t see why anyone else gets to question it.”

Wilkes shook long blond hair out of his face. “That may be,” he said mildly, “but Lucius has a lot of unaccounted for time. Narcissa was mentioning.”

“Narcissa is seeing shadows,” Regulus said, mostly defending Lucius out of a misplaced desire to defend anyone accused of spying. “Who among us doesn’t take a few hours free?”

Griselda rolled her eyes. “Some of us  _work_ , Reg."

Oh yes, this was why Regulus didn’t spend much time around Griselda.

“Well, fortunately for Lucius, there’s hardly a person here who’s not one of ours,” Wilkes said. He was a year younger than Lucius, but they had become good friends as prefects together. And then, of course, there were the extracurriculars.

Regulus couldn’t shake the cold feeling. “You really think  _Lucius_?”

Wilkes and Griselda exchanged looks. “He’s been locked up with himself so much,” Wilkes, not a cell leader but Marked anyway, said.

Griselda sighed. “This whole situation puts my back up,” she muttered. “Suspecting Regulus  _Black_.”

He tried to look trustworthy, and not show the cold sweat that had immediately broken out. They were suspecting him? Was it just a generic, suspect everyone, or had he slipped up somewhere? And how much of this was Griselda, who practiced distrust like the violin, and how much sent down from the Dark Lord?

“Someone’s been leaking,” Wilkes said glumly. “Baron Avery’s cell is down three and he insists it’s because the Aurors knew where to come. But the only people who knew he was going out were in the Inner Circle, and that’s a short list. A few of us were thinking Lucius, since he’s been in the Ministry so much, but he’d have to have balls of iron to do that and then invite so many here.” He smiled thinly. “Here with his wife and child."

Regulus clamped down hard on the urge to shiver. That had been him, it had been his scribbled letter to Bones that had let the Aurors gatecrash Avery’s cell as they tortured their way through a group of Muggles. 

Fortunately, Griselda was bristling enough to distract from any of his unconscious physical reactions. “I think you would live to regret threatening Narcissa, Wilkes.”

Oh yes, Regulus definitely agreed with that. “Not to mention her sister is around.”

Wilkes looked disconcerted. “I only meant… You think Bellatrix would take care of him if it was true? But she's the one worried about his absences."

Regulus shrugged. “And Bella has had it out for Lucius since he started courting her baby sister. Don’t tell her I said this, but Cissy was getting unbearable towards the end, so I’m not surprised Lucius made himself scarce.” There. The pet names should hopefully…

Griselda, at least, looked swayed. “You think we’re working ourselves up over nothing?”

 _Yes_! “Not…quite.” Could he convince them to look at someone else? Who? “There has to be a leak, there have been too many raids coming back short recently. But not Lucius—just like you were saying, look around! No, someone else.” A name came to mind: he contemplated it and decided to go for broke. “Someone middle aged, I think.”

He had both Wilkes and Griselda now, although he couldn’t say why. “Not the oldest, of course,” Wilkes said, “but why not from our generation?” It was well-substantiated rumour that the oldest Death Eaters had gone to school with the Dark Lord, although to Regulus’s knowledge he was the only one to know the exact truth of that.

“Too idealistic,” Regulus said blithely. “Think of how many of us were recruited from Hogwarts, I mean. There’s very few that’ll be thinking of turning for years yet.”

“You are,” said Wilkes. Too observant, too canny Wilkes.

Regulus plastered a smile on. “I’ve been trained for it. And himself has had me looking out.” Only barely a lie, really. “No, the people you want to watch are those about thirty or so, forty, old enough to have children and be concerned for their safety, but too young to have known him before.”

Griselda blinked. “Many of those are high in his favour,” she said cautiously.

“But not all.” Wilkes looked to have someone in mind.

Regulus wondered who but didn’t know how to ask. For his part, he was thinking of Decimus Selwyn, who had the multiple advantages of being Marked, being not present, and being someone who could reasonably defect—to his sister, Augusta Longbottom. Although frankly, sending them off chasing Snigets was the safest thing he could possibly do, and he shouldn’t worry too much which Sniget they were after.

They were interrupted by Walden Macnair, transparently heading for the alcohol rather than his sister. “Hello, Black. Any word what himself wants next week?”

He looked confusedly at Griselda for a moment, but she seemed to have a far better idea of what Walden was asking than he did. “No idea, no, sorry,” Regulus said, and wanted to know why people were asking  _him_  what the Dark Lord was planning.

Walden shrugged. “Wilkes, let’s go...” He grinned nastily, showing overly large, yellowed canines.

Wilkes only shook hair into his face. “Not here, Macnair.” He didn’t seem discomforted by Walden’s general resemblance to a rabid dog. “We are celebrating this morning.”

“We’re also plotting,” Griselda said. “Keep an eye out for anyone looking suspicious, won’t you?”

Walden eyed her, no doubt looking for mockery. “ _Here_?”

Griselda shrugged. “I’m sure we’re not the only ones plotting.”

  



	15. The Prophecy (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An on-time update! I am aiming to get chapter 16 up on 15 October, but graduate school may intervene.
> 
> Thanks to noaacat and elizabethdove for help with grammar and historical accuracy.
> 
> TWs: the usual racism and classism, plus on-screen torture

Regulus made sure he was available on August first, and was therefore unsurprised to be summoned to meet—immediately—with Head Auror Bones.

Equally unsurprising was the discovery that Bones had already done her research and had a list. Two lists, one considerably longer than the other.

“This,” she said, pointing to the longer, “is every wizarding child born in the past week, including those Muggleborns already marked for Hogwarts.”

He eyed it. There were forty or fifty names. “It’s not just those in July.”

Bones sighed and pointed to the other list. It only contained two names. “And this is those born in the past week to parents involved in the war.”

_Harry James Potter. Neville Frank Longbottom._

Regulus looked at the names, and then back at Bones. “They’re on the Dark Lord’s list as well.”

“Which is he focusing on?” She was more serious than he had ever seen her.

“Er…” He knew which he would focus on, in the Dark Lord’s place, but that wasn’t quite the same thing. “He hasn’t mentioned yet.”

Bones’s lips twisted. “We’ll protect both then. You… I’m going to keep you out of the loop on this, understood? From here on, you know nothing about the Potters or the Longbottoms. I’ll come up with something,” someone, he silently edited, “to give You-Know-Who instead. Give me a day or so to talk it over.”

He looked at the list again. “They’re…” He remembered vividly what Draco had looked like at one day old. “Infants,” he managed.

“I know,” Bones said, but it didn’t sound dismissive. Mostly, it just sounded sad. “I know."

* * *

 

Two weeks later, Bones summoned him to Hereford Manor where he discovered, to his unpleasant surprise, that she was hosting an Order meeting and he was expected to attend. Slinking in, he pulled a chair back to the wall of the dining room and watched, rather than say anything. No one tried to introduce him or make an issue of him; in fact, he was surprised to find that there were no introductions at all. People came and sat, nodding to each other and exchanging a few quiet words, but no one said a word to the room at large until every chair was filled.

He recognized not quite half of the people there: Bones and Dumbledore, of course, and Meadowes and Dearborn were there again, along with Professor McGonagall _—_ no surprise there _—_ and Benjy Fenwick, who he knew as a Hufflepuff a few years older. But there were others, mostly middle aged and mostly poor, who looked tired and worn and who took slightly more refreshments than strictly polite.

Regulus didn't dare actually take notes, but he did pay close attention. The Order was small and tightly knit, yet even so he could divide it into two groups: the professionals, who were mostly Aurors and the Hogwarts professionals, who fought because of their principles, and the desperate poor, who fought because they had no other choice. Regulus had not a single thing in common with them and spent most of the meeting watching Fenwick, who was Muggleborn and unemployed and clearly unwanted by his Muggle parents.

It turned out that the Order's concerns were similar to the Dark Lord's, if less callous and cruel. Dumbledore worried about recruitment and losses; Bones about propaganda and the court of public opinion; McGonagall about the impact on children and families; Meadowes about how to predict raids and which to respond to. Dearborn watched Regulus. Fenwick watched Meadowes. The half dozen that Regulus did not know were mostly aligned with McGonagall in terms of priorities, except for a very vicious woman who wanted to infiltrate the Death Eaters in order to kill them more effectively.

Regulus said nothing and did not make eye contact with Bones. At the end she waved him over regardless, although she did wait until everyone else had left to start talking.

“You got what you needed?” She was wearing very sombre, conservative black robes. “Names, such?”

He had gotten more than enough to make the Dark Lord happy, even with his new obsession. “I—” One thing he didn’t think Dorcas Meadowes had meant to let slip, but she had, and now it was in his head. “All of it?”

Bones looked like she was thinking of the same comment. “Yes, and let this be a lesson to them.” Her grey eyes flashed—Regulus dreaded to be the Auror she put the fear of God into next. “There are enough secrets in your head already. Don’t add to them for our sake.”

Well, that was clear enough. “I know more than names.” He had to try one more time, before going to give them over… “I can tell him where you’ve put them.”

Them, them, the only they that mattered anymore: The Longbottoms and the Potters.

Surprisingly, the corners of her mouth twitched upward. “You know what we want you to know, Black, and not a bit more. Meadowes knows what she’s about.”

He thought about this, then said, “Was I lied to?”

“You’re too valuable for that,” Bones said gruffly. “And would I tell you if you had been?”

No was the correct answer to this, but he did remind himself not to underestimate Bones again. “Our next meeting is Friday. Expect my owl.”

* * *

 

He occupied himself around Grimmauld Place for the next few days, but was glad to have an excuse to leave Friday evening. The Dark Lord was holding court at Flint Castle this month: Apparently Muggles toured the ruins, but the present Flint Castle was on an artificial island in the River Dee. Very secure, very well hidden, and very impressive.

Tiberius Flint met him at the gatehouse. “Black.”

“Flint.” Regulus knew—and he knew Tiberius knew—that he could leave the older man on the ground without really trying if pushed. “How many fugitive nobles do you think it will take to make the Wizengamot strip the protections on our manors?”

Tiberius smirked. “I think they’re afraid of the precedent that would set. Imagine the consequences for Lord Abbott if he pushes that and we win.”

“Indeed. Then again, it would strip us of some of our best.”

The Death Eater shrugged. “I suppose they think they can catch us in a raid. Unfortunately for them,” he grinned, “that means I’ll have to be back out raiding.”

Regulus tilted his head. “Himself doesn’t want you-?” Regulus might be able to defeat Tiberius, but that didn’t mean the other Death Eater wasn’t a formidable opponent, and extremely handy in a raid.

Another shrug. Tiberius had always been laid back unless provoked—which was the sort of thought that led Regulus, inevitably, to wonder what had happened with that Muggle family. “A word to the wise: He’s in a mood. Lucky for those of us blessed with his presence. I’ll go back out on raids when he’s finished sorting out whatever is concerning him. If it makes you feel better, he put the leash on the Lestranges too. Anyone the Ministry is after is to stay under protection until he says otherwise.”

How much of the Dark Lord’s mood was due to the prophecy? All of it, Regulus would bet. “Well, I’d best go in and wait till he’s ready for me.”

“Oh no,” Tiberius said dryly. “He wants you first. You and Severus.”

Regulus’s stomach sank straight through the cobblestones. “First?” There was a very short list of reasons for the Dark Lord to want the two of them _first_ , and Regulus liked none of them.

“He was _emphatic_.” Tiberius started to make his way up to the keep. “You and Snape, and Snape has already been in. He stopped screaming about ten minutes back.” He sounded casual, and Regulus abruptly realized that Sev—poor, halfblood Severus—wasn’t very popular among the Death Eaters. And very possibly dead, if the Dark Lord had found _everything_ in his head. Stopped screaming: did that mean Sev had been released to join the party? Or…not.

Feeling nauseous, Regulus muttered, “Lucky me.”

There didn’t seem to be any point to running. If he ran, the Dark Lord would only catch up, and then he would be punished twice. The only thing he could think to hope for, almost certainly in vain, was that the Dark Lord had not learned they were conspiring to kill him.

The Flint who had rebuilt the castle had kept the old style, and so they passed through several thick stone walls before Tiberius deposited him in the great hall, empty except for the Dark Lord. It did not make Regulus feel any better.

“Leave us, Tiberius.”

Regulus was shaking despite the Heating Charms, despite every instinct saying to keep still and hide. “My lord.” He was never sure, later, if his knees gave out or if he knelt deliberately, but either way he ended up with a sharp pain in both of them when they hit the stone floor far too hard.

The Dark Lord waited until the door closed behind Tiberius before rising from his throne. “Such fear, Lord Earl of Huntingon,” he said mockingly, and the only thing Regulus could think, absurd as it was, was that he had no idea how he could spend years trying to explain titles and rank to someone and have them still come out with _Lord Earl_.

But that, of course, was only a thread of hysteria and it was very nearly drowned in cloying _terror_ as the Dark Lord approached him.

“ _Crucio_.”

He started screaming the moment it hit.

It was bad, this one, he must be really mad, oh what _had_ Severus given away—surely he wasn’t dead, he couldn’t be dead—

And then the horrible raging burning pain of the Cruciatus was joined by the much more specific and awful pain of the Dark Lord in his head.

“You know my prophecy.”

 _Oh good_ , Regulus thought inanely, _it’s just the prophecy_ , but that was the point when everything got so bad he couldn’t think at all.

“Severus Snape told you, a crime for which he has already been punished.” There was a hand on his head and he was screaming, his skin on fire and his brain eaten alive. “But you, Regulus Black, you did not come to me with his story.”

He screamed so long he couldn’t breathe in again and dissolved into hiccupping sobs. The pain arced and crawled over him, filling his bones with shards.

“Why not?”

The pain ended.

He couldn’t stop crying, though, the tears came out of him without him willing them, on and on, and he gasped and choked, sprawled on the floor at the Dark Lord’s feet.

It took forever before he could sit up, and longer to be able to speak.

“Didn’t know it was secret,” he said, in gasps and spurts. “Thought Sev had permission.”

The abiding grace of this was that it was _true_ ; he had never stopped to wonder whether Severus was disobeying the Dark Lord in telling him. He forced more words up to his lips, a shoddy start at pulling his mind back together. “Why keep it secret? Tell e’ryone. Kill the child. Publically.”

There was something very wrong with this plan, he felt, but he would process this later.

“Look at me.”

Merlin, but there was something wrong with that too, only he couldn’t think what, and turned his face upward.

The Dark Lord was still standing over him. His face was very white—was that new?—and his eyes a flat, solid red from lid to lid.

Something skittered down Regulus’s spine. He excused it as the aftershocks of pain.

Then his brain twisted inside out and he just hung on for the ride.

_Severus at the party—the party?—the party and asking to see him—cold stone against Regulus, he's whispering to Severus—_

_"Yes, some people are loyal to the Dark Lord."_

_A blur and then, in his sitting room, Severus wet and strained: "If you're no longer interested, I can leave."_

_His own fear thrown back in his face—enough fear to drown in, and he shoved at it—he was all over fear, shakes and cold and nausea—_

“ _He was frothing. He isn’t thinking about this as an opportunity. More like paranoia gone wild.”_

 _Fear—got to do something—can’t go on like this—afraid of the Dark Lord—_ blinding gasping terror—

_"When the war is over, I will be protected."_

_You said I could, you said you said you said, I told him what he wanted to hear, I had to find out what he knew—_

_"He's going to need to..."_

_"Die."_

_Told him that to shut him up, talking revolution, lying liar, wanted him gone, shocked him didn't I, had to know what he knew, didn't commit, didn't do anything wouldn't do anything wouldn't dare_

His body screamed as his mind twisted and pulled.

_Anger now, fury and spited pride, touching Weasleys, being near them, hoarding information—the Longbottoms, and that led to—_

_Dorcas Meadowes, sitting at the table, saying, “Why’d you put me on guard duty? I’m better with Caradoc, you know that. It’s not like anyone can get to the Longbottoms, the Manor is guarded every which way from Sunday.”_

_Bones, shaking her head. “There are so many Death Eaters wandering around—”_

“ _Around Yorkshire, yeah, I know. It’s not easy, though, trying to guard Cropton and Godric’s Hollow at the same time. If you’d just consolidate—”_

_Glee and delight, Unplottable wasn’t unfindable, with care—_

“ _I think some of us have public faces to maintain, and as long as we obey the Dark Lord, I don’t see why anyone else gets to question it.”_

His head was his own. He was still shaking, and his face was covered in tears and snot, but it was his again.

The Dark Lord watched him. "What was that last with Severus?"

Christ, he wanted to vomit. "T-t-trying to p-p-p-p-provoke him. Say somethin' stupid." His mental chest was intact, the memories were safe, but _why_ hadn't he put the conversation with Severus in there when he'd put the ones with Walburga in?

With quiet steps, the Dark Lord returned to his throne. “You think I should leak the content of the prophecy. Won’t it inspire them to protect the children more?” Apparently he was satisfied with that. Maybe Severus had said something—oh God, what _had_ happened to Severus?

His tongue lay leaden at the bottom of his mouth. “M’be leak it right b’fore you kill them. No one’ll come for you. Then. They’ll fear you.”

“Don’t they already fear me?” the Dark Lord asked, but it sounded like he was testing Regulus. Again.

Regulus shoved himself back into a kneeling position. “Yes. The Order thinks they can kill you. My lord. That’d change…”

“If I killed the children.” He seemed to be considering this. Regulus realized he had absolutely no idea what position he was trying to argue, except for any one that kept him alive. “But the Order already knows the prophecy.”

There wasn’t much of an answer to this. “Yes, my lord.”

“You will not be spreading it around publicly,” the Dark Lord ruled. “The benefits of this are much less than you imagine. It is to my benefit to have you know. You may consider your punishment at an end.”

“Thank you, my lord,” he said fervently. He wasn’t dying today. Thank God.

The Dark Lord drummed his fingers, a sure sign he was planning. “I cannot be in Godric’s Hollow and Cropton at once.”

 _That’s reassuring_ , Regulus thought, borderline hysterical.

“If I strike sequentially, they will be prepared. Thus, simultaneous strikes. I need a second commander.”

Regulus’s mind struggled to follow this logic and eventually skittered to a halt at the inevitable conclusion. “Me? My lord?”

The Dark Lord only looked at him. “You are in a difficult position, are you not? Caught between two masters and I the only person who knows who you are truly loyal to.”

“Yes, my lord,” he said, hoping this conversation would find a conclusion soon.

“You have so far managed to avoid raids. I appreciate the urge to remain out of the eyes of the Aurors, but that is why you will wear a mask. This mask.” The Dark Lord twisted his hand and Conjured a silver mask with a blood-red stripe down one cheek. “It will distinguish you while concealing your identity.”

Ah. Bones was going to kill him. “Thank you, my lord.” He made his way to his feet—still shaking—and crossed to take the mask from the Dark Lord. “And, ah, when will we be…?” And with whom, now _that_ he wanted to know but did not feel safe asking.

The Dark Lord gave him a long, unblinking stare. “I will call you. You are dismissed, Regulus. I have no more need of you tonight.”

Regulus backed away slowly, terrified his legs were going to give out and leave him sprawled on the floor. When he reached the door, he had to turn to open it, but then he was safely in the hallway.

Tiberius was back out at the gatehouse. “He worked you over,” Tiberius said, one side of his mouth tilting up. Regulus would’ve gotten angry, but Tiberius raised one hand so it visibly shook, and Regulus recognized his comment for the sort of morbid humour found in those who had been through too much pain to process.

“I don’t think I’ll be good company tonight,” Regulus said by way of explanation.

Abruptly, Tiberius looked much more sympathetic. “I thought as much. What did you and Snape get up to, that he went to such lengths?”

Oh good, he had been audible. “He doesn’t want it spoken of.”

Tiberius shrugged. “Can’t blame me for asking.”

Regulus kind of wanted to anyway, but didn’t respond. He Disapparated, gritting his teeth in concentration.

It was a mild surprise to appear, not at Grimmauld Place, but at Hereford Manor. He hadn’t Splinched himself, so that was something.

An elf appeared in front of him, looked up at him, and said, “Mistress has instructions for you. Come!”

He followed her in the dark, trembling and too tired to care what was going on. She led him inside the manor and up a flight of stairs to a small sitting room. Snapping her fingers to light the lamps, she told him, “Mistress will be a minute. Wait here.”

Obediently, he sat on one of the plush chairs, hoping to stop shivering soon.

Some time later—he couldn’t say how long—Bones came in, in a grey dressing gown and slippers. “Hello, Black.”

He went to stand, but that was when his legs finally gave out and he ended up on the floor. Again.

“Oh dear,” she said, and then, “Cruciatus, I see, anything else?”

It wasn’t that he hurt, so much, as that he could no longer feel anything at all. “Legilimency,” he managed, breathless.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to get yourself up, then.”

He thought that was rather callous, coming from someone who claimed to be on the side of love.

“Cruciatus damage sets in when you don’t use the nerves immediately. I don’t suppose anyone ever told you that."

 _Oh_. He did manage to get himself mostly righted, and looked up at her. “You…told your elf about me.”

She sat herself in another chair. “Yes. I suspected there would be a time when you would want refuge. What happened tonight?”

Regulus shoved _hard_ and got himself back in the chair. “He didn’t like that I knew the prophecy. He thought I had turned.”

Bones’s lips went very tight. “By your survival, I may assume…”

“I lied to him.” And wasn’t _that_ a terror in and of itself. There were lies and then there were _lies_ , and he had convinced the Dark Lord of the precise opposite of truth.

“There’s more.” He was so damn tired, but his head was buzzing and his fingers numb and he knew he shouldn’t sleep until Bones had been told.

Bones nodded, quiet.

He had to take two breaths before the words would come out. “He is sending raids to Godric’s Hollow and Cropton after the Potters and the Longbottoms. Soon. I don’t know exactly when.”

Bones frowned. “I let you have that to give to him—”

“There’s more,” he said insistently. “He wants—he’s put—” He struggled with the words fruitlessly, and finally said it right out. “There are two raids. He’s leading one. I’ll lead the other.”

To his…pleasure? Bones sat back and went very pale. “In disguise, I hope,” she said after a pause.

He twisted his lips. Maybe it looked like a smile. “He gave me a mask.”

“I suppose that’s better than the alternative.” Bones rubbed her face with one hand. “You have to go, of course. You can’t give him a reason to doubt you.”

He had known that, but couldn’t blame Bones for pointing it out anyway. It wasn’t like he was at the top of his game. “I’m going to hurt people.”

Bones had a terrible, sad expression on her face. “Yes. There is very little to be done about that now.”

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “He can track me through the Mark, you know. We can’t defect. Not and survive.”

“I had guessed as much.” She was still staring at him. “Stay here tonight. I don’t think you should Apparate.”

Regulus rubbed his face. “Suppose not.”

Bones sent him to a guest room where he didn’t even get his robes off before collapsing on the bed and passing out.

* * *

He woke late, around noon, and stumbled down to the kitchen to beg food from the elves. To his surprise, Bones was there too, in well-worn Auror robes and with a banana in one hand. “Any lingering after-effects?”

Regulus grabbed an orange from the fruit basket. “Some sore muscles,” he said, trying to be offhand about it. He had slept the night through, but woke up barely able to walk straight. “Otherwise I seem to be fine.”

Bones eyed him sceptically. “You look like something the cat dragged in.”

He peeled the orange roughly, not caring for once if he mangled it. “He held me under the Cruciatus and then invaded my mind, what do you _want_ from me?”

“An emotional reaction,” Bones said dryly. “You’re too self-controlled for anyone’s good, especially given your age.”

It was far too early for anyone to be needling him about his _age_ , Regulus thought, and ignored that the sun was fully up. “I’m a Slytherin, we don’t do emotional,” he told her, and muttered, “I’m nineteen, I’m not a _child_.”

To his annoyance, Bones laughed at him. Out loud. “You have the exact same face Susan gets when someone tells her she can’t do something.”

 _Delightful_. He closed his mouth on several inappropriate reactions and finally said, “You’re much more relaxed. Off duty."

“Yes,” she said, calm. “We’re all human, Black. We all bleed and cry, but we all laugh and love too. It’s too easy to forget that, in a war.”

He said something noncommittal, although he wasn't sure what, and thought about Bellatrix and the Dark Lord, and others too, who laughed at pain and loved only bloodshed. Sure, everyone had happy thoughts. Sometimes it was best if those thoughts weren't shared with others. After a moment, he said it out loud. "You say that like it applies to _him_. He might laugh, but I wouldn't call it human."

Bones froze, giving him an odd stare. “Tea or whiskey?”

He blinked. “What?”

“This needs a drink. Either caffeine or alcohol, and right now I don’t particularly care.”

“Oh.” It said something about his life that this still wasn’t the oddest conversation he’d had in the last twenty four hours. “Tea, please.”

Bones drew her wand and jerked it at the cupboards. A kettle flew out and put itself on the stove; a second jerk lit the burner, and Bones turned her attention back to him. “So he’s no longer human. If he ever was.”

He had to think about this and try to remember what was commonly known about the Dark Lord's past, as living with his mother and working for the Dark Lord _—_ and now both at once, perish the thought _—_ had ruined any understanding of normalcy. "He was, once. He attended Hogwarts, he was a year behind my mother. From her words and my own knowledge of him, he was very...odd. Very smart, but very odd. Apparently as a firstie he didn’t know anything about the wizarding world, but by fifth year, everyone was asking _him_ questions about Hogwarts.”

Bones looked like she wanted to take notes. “Why have I never asked you about _this_?”

He shrugged. “It’s not common knowledge _—_ neither what I say nor that I know it.”

The kettle whistled.

"Damn it, hold that thought,” Bones said brusquely and went to make tea.

Regulus waited obediently, wondering why they _hadn’t_ had this talk before. He knew that Walburga was one of the few to connect Lord Voldemort with Tom Riddle; he had just never thought to mention it to Bones.

Bones returned to the table with the kettle and two teacups. “Serve yourself, but first: Why doesn’t anyone else know this? There have to have been more people who could connect the child to the adult.”

“How many of your classmates did you still talk to ten years on? Twenty?” He poured tea into the closest cup and put it, steaming, between his hands. “Those in the Inner Circle who are his age know. To the extent of my knowledge, my mother is the only one not Marked to connect him with the student at Hogwarts.”

She looked thoughtful, and poured herself a cup. “A fair point. Next question: What do you know that could be useful?”

He looked at the tea and decided it was still too hot, and rubbed his hands over his eyes instead. “Well, he’s a halfblood. Wizarding parent was old money, not titled, but landed gentry. I don’t know who raised him, but not the wizarding parent because…that’s what he needs me for. To help with basic information on wizarding nobility.”

“I’ll have to pass that by our CATs to make sure it won’t alienate anyone…” She grinned at his confused look. “CATs—”

“Communications and Tactics, yeah,” Regulus said, having spent enough time around the Ministry to know the term for the poor sods who got to interface with the public and the media. “Why would this alienate anyone?”

Bones took a sip of tea and swallowed quick enough it must have burned. “The CATs can spin this as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is a lying hypocrite pretending to have a past he doesn’t have. But right now we depend heavily on Muggleborns and halfbloods, neither of which will appreciate a reminder that there’s a _reason_ people want to be pureblood.”

Regulus poked his tea. “Wizengamot votes aren’t this complicated.”

“Wizengamot voters all fit in one room. Public opinion is quite a bit larger.” She sighed. “We seem to have digressed a little.”

He shrugged and finally took a sip. It didn’t quite peel the roof of his mouth but it came close. “The alternative is talking about last night, and I would much rather talk about the Dark Lord’s family history and ways to play that in the press.”

She laughed dryly at that. “Well then, so he’s a halfblood.”

“I looked up his NEWT scores once.” Regulus drained his cup and hoped it would burn more than just his mouth. “Terrifying, honestly. Exact A’s. Like when he took the test he knew they weren’t going to matter. Except for Defence, where he couldn’t resist showing off.” More tea was an excellent idea, he decided. “An O there. His OWLs were completely different."

Bones sipped her tea. “So were yours, I might remind you. Spectacular OWLs, _dreadful_ NEWTs.”

He blinked, and decided not to pursue that. “As far as I know, he graduated, vanished to the Ottoman Empire for ten years, tried to get hired at Hogwarts, failed, and then began recruiting.”

“You think he started recruiting in the fifties?” Bones leaned forward. “But attacks didn’t start until 1970.”

Regulus shook his head. “Attacks you would think of, sure. But they were…” He groped for the right word. “Practicing. They went after Muggles. One at a time, not families. And very quietly. He still travelled, from what I’ve heard. He might still, I don’t know. No one knows where he goes between ‘visiting’ the homes of the favoured.”

She drummed her fingers. “Something to follow up on, I suppose.” Bones flicked her pocket watch open. “Ach, it’s late. They’ll be wanting me at the office. You’re welcome to stay here for as long as you need, the elves will clean up when you’re done. But I warn you, if you’re still here when I get home,” she grinned, “I’ll have more questions.”

“Oh good,” Regulus muttered, not really upset by this. Raiding the Bones library was likely to be more fruitful than making yet another pass through the Grimmauld Place library, and it was…nice…to have someone to talk to.

Bones put her teacup down and went over to the kitchen fire. Taking Floo powder off the mantle, she tossed it in and shouted, “Head Auror’s office!” before stepping in and vanishing.

Regulus took the opportunity to savour his tea, but eventually went off to find the library.


	16. The Prophecy (3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … Well. It’s done. Next chapter will be up in January.
> 
> Thanks to noaacat and elizabethdove for help with grammar and historical ~~screaming~~ accuracy.
> 
> TWs: Death Eaters being Death Eaters, Voldemort being Voldemort, a fight scene, some blood, and general nonsense. You know the drill.

A week later—a week of training, of sleepless nights, of watching Walburga enter and exit Grimmauld at all hours and simply trying to stay out of the way, of late night strategy meetings with the Dark Lord planning the coming attack—his Mark burned. He Apparated without thinking about it and just let the Mark guide him to Blackmere Manor. —

This must be for the raids. He still didn't know which one he was going to lead, but he had spoken extensively with the Dark Lord about tactics and personnel, so he had some idea what was coming next, whether in Cropton or Godric's Hollow.

Indeed, Bellatrix was easily spotted among the growing crowd of Death Eaters. “Reggie!” she squealed.

He forced himself to stand a little straighter—he was leading half of this fiasco, whatever his ultimate thoughts about it might be. “Bellatrix. Himself is letting you off leash for tonight?”

Her grin was feral. “And every night after, if this works out. He’s on the steps. Waiting for you.”

Regulus sent a hex at her kneecaps—which she deflected—and made his way towards the manor. Some of the Death Eaters he passed greeted him, and he returned the greetings, but the crowd thinned out near the front steps of Blackmere Manor.

The Dark Lord was standing there, calling forward Death Eaters by name and presenting them with flat silver masks that gripped their faces and turned them into faceless shadows. He didn’t spend time looking around to see who had come in yet, nor did he need to shout: The name was said, and then the Death Eater was there, taking the mask and backing away.

“Regulus Black!”

He stepped forward.

The Dark Lord bared his teeth. Regulus’s gut rolled over, and he fought the urge to kneel. “You have been feeding the Ministry your tales again, haven’t you? We shall see if any of them took.” He waved his wand and the same silver mask with red stripe appeared.

Someone—one of the Lestranges, no doubt—wolf-whistled.

Regulus reached out and took it from the air.

The mask was slightly larger than his face and would cover from just above his hairline to his chin. It had black mesh over the eyes, and a half dozen small holes where his mouth would be. Otherwise, it was featureless. The red paint slashed from temple to jaw over the right side of the mask.

Daring to make eye contact with the Dark Lord—let him see what he would, all Regulus felt now was anger and determination—Regulus turned the mask over and put it to his face.

The magic took immediately. He could no longer feel cold metal on his cheeks or mesh flicking against his eyelashes; instead it was like his head had been wrapped in fabric. He pulled the hood up on his robes and the effect was complete.

"Stand next to me, my servant, and see your fellow Death Eaters."

Regulus stood and watched as masks were handed out. He knew most of the names and most of the people here were already wanted by the Ministry—so the Dark Lord had expected and planned for him to report to Bones, and if one or both raids failed no one would be implicated who was not already at risk. Except him.

Finally there were no names left to call. The Dark Lord waved his wand lazily. A sheet of parchment appeared in Regulus's hands. "You have now received your assignments," the Dark Lord said. "Those of you who will be with me, prepare to Apparate to the graveyard in Godric's Hollow on my signal. Those of you with Regulus Black, look to him for instructions."

Regulus held his parchment up—a list of names. The three Lestranges and Rookwood topped it, Lance Avery, Tiberius and Caius Flint, most everyone Marked from his year, and an assortment of older siblings and former Hogwarts students. Altogether, about forty wizards and witches, most of them in their twenties or younger. Almost all gentry or nobility, and about half of them were on the Ministry's list.

The Dark Lord said, "Regulus. Time your departure to midnight. Some of your fighters have children at home who need tending to." It was always worse when he was tender. The Dark Lord didn't feel tenderness, he just faked it, and there would be a cost to that later. "Remember that I want captives, not a list of dead in tomorrow's paper. Kidnappings, not assassinations."

"Yes, my lord." Cropton. He was going to Cropton, to the Longbottoms, with forty Death Eaters, and he was supposed to capture, not kill, oh Mother of God, no one deserved that.

The Dark Lord sent up red sparks and Disapparated; his team followed.

Regulus looked at the remainder. "We're to capture," he said, trying to sound authoritative, "not kill."

The closest Death Eater to him spoke, echoing his thoughts. “Doesn’t he think we can kill a babe?” said Rabastan’s voice, eerily disconnected from his motionless, silver mask.

Regulus didn't really want to know why the Dark Lord had told Rab Lestrange, of all people, about the prophecy. “Were you questioning his orders?” He didn't know how to lead a raid—he hadn't _been_ on a raid—but he'd seen the Dark Lord talk to Death Eaters often enough, and maybe, just maybe, if he pretended he was the Dark Lord, acted like him, ignored the part of his mind that was gibbering in panic—

Rabastan took a step backwards. “Was not. Anyway, what _are_ your orders? Should we just do a smash and grab?”

“No,” Regulus said immediately, on the impulse that anything that Rabastan came up with was likely to get them all captured. Only…shouldn’t that be what he wanted? He hesitated and stalled for time. “Where's Bella?"

Movement in the crowd—she had finally put her mask on, but without pulling her hood up. Oh Bellatrix. "Dolph is with Lance. And your little friends from school. Interesting party you have here, Reggie."

"The Dark Lord made the lists," he snapped. "You, Dolph, Rab..." He couldn't call Rookwood by his first name, the world would sooner end. "And Rookwood, pick a group. Eight, including you. I'll take the remainder. Dolohov and Macnair, with me."

Three people moved forward, and he shrugged internally. There had to be some use to Walden.

He let the group sort itself out for a moment—if they made the choices, they couldn't blame him for it, right? Right—and eventually wound up with Lorette Wilkes, Titus Flint, both Edmund and his older brother Peter Nott, and Alfred Selwyn, in addition to the Macnairs and Julien Dolohov.

“All right,” he said, when everyone had mostly stopped shuffling around. “We don’t know exactly where Longbottom Manor is, just that it’s in Cropton. We’re going to Apparate into the courtyard of _The Green Dragon_ —everyone know it? Good. Rabastan, from there you’ll handle the rear-guard. Anyone who gets in our way, put them down.” Just like the generals in the history books, he thought distantly. He couldn’t think about what his words meant, only that he was walking in the footsteps of heroes. “The manor should be north or east of the city, judging by the wizarding spaces we know are there.”

Like _The Green Dragon_ , which was north-east of Muggle Cropton.

“Bellatrix, head north; Rookwood, head east. You know best how to run the search. When you find it—" because he wouldn't, couldn't contemplate failure— "send up the Dark Mark. Everyone else will Apparate to it. The remaining two groups will circle the city—Rodolphus widdershins, mine sunwise—and see if the manor isn’t there. Should we complete the circuit, we’ll meet up north-east of the city with Rabastan.”

A series of nods: This was reasonably standard for finding a hidden house. But it hadn’t been feasible until Regulus had brought back the key piece, the city where Longbottom Manor was located. He felt sick.

He pushed on. “Once we find the manor. Rabastan, you and your team will handle the wards. Rodolphus, your turn to provide cover. Bella and Rookwood, our teams will search the manor. I suspect we’ll have some duels on our hands—”

Bellatrix giggled, yes, she would enjoy that bit of it.

“But after that I’ll be sending you to look for hideaways.” He raised his voice, standing a little straighter. “We _capture_ , tonight. When we have our captives, on my call, Apparate back here with them. Don’t stick around for one last curse. Rab, half your job is going to be to keep them from putting anything back up, you understand? The Aurors will come in hot on this one.”

More nods, but sober ones this time. Good. Or something—even Regulus didn’t know if he wanted them all to be captured or not. Probably it was best to just go forward with it and hope the warning he had given Bones had been enough. Trust the Aurors to do their jobs, now there was a funny thought.

As he prepared to Apparate, picturing the pub's courtyard, he spared a thought for the Potters. They were celebrating Charlus's birthday; what a rotten night it would be for them. He swallowed hard in the hope it would settle his stomach. “Let’s go.”

* * *

The first task—finding the manor—went off nearly without a hitch. _The Green Dragon_ was not so crowded as to be spilling over into the street, and Regulus managed to get everyone sent off on their tasks without any forays into the pub for targets. His team had gotten halfway around Cropton by the time Griselda spotted the Mark high in the air over the forest. He focused, spun, and Apparated onto a grassy knoll.

There was no manor in sight.

“It’s here,” Rookwood said, mask illuminated by Avery’s wand, and fingers twitching rapidly.

“Rabastan,” Regulus said, looking around. No one had gotten to draw blood yet, and he knew the Lestranges, in particular, would be antsy about that, but he had a bad feeling about the look in Rookwood’s eyes.

Rab came forward, but too late—Rookwood said something horrifyingly unpronounceable, and the world shook.

Something tore, paper-like, away from his eyes and he saw a manor appear, complete with walls and gardens and—deep inside, Regulus bemoaned the losses to come—a party.

“Well, they know we’re here _now_ ,” Regulus snapped, not quite _at_ Rookwood but dangerously close.

Rookwood couldn’t possibly look abashed behind cloak and mask, but somehow gave off the impression that he was having second thoughts about this action. “An Unspeakable trick,” he said, by way of either justification or explanation.

“Wards are still up.” Rabastan had his wand out and he and Corban Yaxley were firing off spells. After a moment, he backed away, looking satisfied; Yaxley and some others were still casting. “We can bring them down for long enough for everyone to get inside, but then they’ll go back up. It’ll take longer to get them down permanently.”

Regulus nodded. “Do it. And have them down before the Aurors get here.”

Rabastan made a motion that might have been a salute, and turned back to the invisible line separating Longbottom territory from the rest of the world.

“Bellatrix, Rookwood.” He looked at both of them. Bellatrix _still_ didn’t have her hood up—her loss. “We’ll go after the partiers first. Then deal with anyone inside the house.”

Rookwood nodded, silent. Bellatrix, predictably, had to comment. “They’ll bolt if we leave them outside.”

Regulus crossed his arms. “Straight into Dolph and Rab's teams.” To that end, he jerked his head at Rodolphus. “Spread out along the perimeter. Be ready for escapees.”

He _knew_ the Lestranges were grinning under their masks, and he could only hope that the unfortunate Longbottoms would be put down quickly. Bellatrix was very nearly as anticipatory; of the leaders, only Rookwood was at all restrained. “On Rabastan’s word.”

Fortunately for Regulus’s nerves it was only moments later that Yaxley gave a war-whoop. “They’re down!” Rabastan shouted.

It was completely unnecessary: Bellatrix had bolted forward at Yaxley’s yell, followed by several others. Regulus was torn between going to the lead—to perhaps set an example by Stunning only—or hanging back and not implicating himself. The choice was taken from him when Lorette—or someone wearing her perfume—took his arm in hers and pulled him down the hill to where a winding cobblestone road reached the gates to the manor.

Someone inside had realized and Bellatrix was trading spells with them, but Bella was backed up by another Death Eater and it was over before the defender could find reinforcements. With a grunt, Rookwood cast a spell on the gates themselves.

There was a scream, like someone under the Cruciatus, and then the gates were gone. Something crawled down Regulus’s back. Rookwood gave him a little salute with his wand, and then bent over to catch his breath.

Lorette danced forward and hit the first defender with something purple and wicked-fast; the Longbottom collapsed, screaming.

Regulus remembered Barty taunting Lorette for the style of her dresses, her painted nails, her high heels—all very Muggle, wasn’t it, and then she’d hit him with that curse. He’d spent a week in the Hospital Wing and that was _with_ the counter-curse.

Something ugly was in his throat: If he hadn’t been here, if he had let the Dark Lord kill him instead, would whoever had led this raid known that Lorette was a powerful, unconventional duelist? Would they have let her lead the entry? Would that Longbottom still be able to stand, speak, walk?

“ _Morsmordre_!”

The Mark went up, green and ghostly. Someone had died, tonight, and it was at least partially on him.

A voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Bones said, _Keep your damn cover. He’s got more Death Eaters, but the Order only has one spy._

He cursed himself, the Dark Lord, and Bones in that order, and then bolted for the manor.

If he wasn’t—himself, if he hadn’t had the tutoring in the Dark Arts, what would he do now? Only it was too late to go on the offensive, there were spells cast all around his head.

His wand leaped into his hand and he brought it up smoothly.

_Protego_.

He stepped forward into the gap his shield created in the mass of fighting. The Death Eaters and the Longbottoms had come together and packed tight in the gateway; each trying to take advantage of close quarters and faster duels. He should stay away from the emotion based magic, Transfiguration and most of the Dark Arts. That would tip the scales too far, and if the Dark Lord called him on it, he could defend himself. Probably.

_Haema_.

Regulus flicked his wand sideways and blood spurted everywhere, from one Longbottom after another.

_Levicorpus_.

No harm in that one, everyone at Hogwarts with Severus knew it. But the older man standing across from Regulus didn’t, and Regulus’s hex hit him without any resistance.

_Expelliarmus_.

The man hit the ground and his wand went flying into the night.

He twisted his hand and repeated the ancient cutting curse, this time cutting deeper than mere skin: One of the defenders went down screaming.

There were too many of them, he realized. This couldn’t just be Longbottoms. Had Bones—

He swung his arm across his chest.

_Ignis flagellum._

The whip of flame forced the defenders back and sparked fires in the weeds growing between the cobblestones.

Regulus risked turning his back to look for Yaxley. If these were Aurors, he would know.

But the masks and hoods worked against them too, he was still trying to work out who had the very distinctive wrist motion when someone hit him on the shoulders. “ _Down_ , you idiot!”

He fell hard, only barely managing to land on his elbows and protect his wand.

Something nasty—that was not a Ministry-allowed curse—screeched over his head, and Regulus breathed out sharply. This wasn’t a duel, or even a scrummage at Hogwarts. This was a battle, and the other side was aiming to kill.

“I know it’s your first,” his saviour snapped, “but come _on_ , Regulus. Keep it together.” Griselda. Of course.

Regulus hauled himself to his feet. “No names.” In the harsh, flickering light given off by spells, the Longbottom opposite him looked vindicated. “Thank you.”

There were too many Death Eaters, he knew. If he didn't rein them in, the Dark Lord wouldn't get his captives—and he would have to explain to Bones what happened to the Longbottoms. But keeping Death Eaters from destruction was nearly impossible, unless he stopped the battle single-handedly. There was a limited number of ways to do that—most of his Defence teachers had been rubbish, of course, but you couldn't spend months around the Dark Lord without learning _something_  of how to manage conflict.

It was not hard to summon the anger needed. It was harder to come up with the control.

_Ignis exacerbis._

He drew his line neat and tight, and the flames sprung up perfectly between the Death Eaters and the Longbottoms. Regulus bared his teeth, jaw clenched tight. “Stun them,” he said over the howling of the flames. “Now.”

There was a crackling, spitting quiet as the Death Eaters stared at him. At last Griselda reacted first, but then there was a barrage of Stunners. Magic could pass through the flames intact, but the Longbottoms—and their help—didn’t have anything to aim at, and the Death Eaters could just cast wildly.

Furious and sick, Regulus yanked his wand down the instant spells stopped coming at him.

_Exstinguo_.

For once, for _once_ in his life, something worked the way he wanted it to, and the fire disappeared.

On the other side of the smoking black line was a pile of unconscious bodies. “Rookwood,” Regulus snapped. “Check them. Take their wands, and see who we caught. Bellatrix, the house.”

No one argued. Regulus rather thought they didn’t dare. Fiendfyre was a flashy spell and almost entirely limited to duels because of the difficulty in controlling it. And Regulus had just set it on a battlefield.

Bellatrix ran into the manor, her team following rabidly. Regulus stepped over the scorched line.

“Tell me who we have.”

For a moment, Rookwood didn’t respond. His team was pulling floppy, unconscious bodies over the cobblestones, arranging them face up, and pulling wands from hands and pockets. “That’s the Duke,” he said eventually. “Harfang Longbottom.”

Regulus thought he might recognize the face from the Wizengamot and his father’s burial. Harfang’s robes were bloody and burnt on the edges.

“Ah, and his son, Marcus.”

This one had gotten hit by something other than a Stunner; he didn’t have the slack face for that, but rather jerked as if held inside an invisible coffin.

Rookwood stepped along the line and said a few more names, but Regulus wasn’t paying any attention. Harfang and Marcus were enough, weren’t they? The Dark Lord didn’t want the whole family, just…

He had to breathe slowly and deeply. Just enough to force Frank and Alice out of hiding with their son, the subject of prophecy.

“Those two,” he said, pointing at Harfang and Marcus and swallowing bile. “Walden and Peter, take them back.” He looked at the line of bodies and picked basically at random. “And these three. Rookwood, your choice for who takes them.”

Rookwood called out three of his team.

When the crack of Apparations had died down, Regulus frowned at the remainder. “All men,” he said out loud, and looked up at Rookwood.

“Not quite,” said Yaxley—there he was—and kicked a body. “This one’s a woman. And a Hit Wizard, I’ve seen her at the Ministry.”

Regulus shook his head. “I meant, Harfang’s a good fighter but his wife is a Black. Marcus is good, but…”

Alfred Selwyn snorted. “She always handed me my arse, yeah. You’re right. They didn’t send the best.”

“They sent enough,” Regulus said slowly, and took off at a run towards the house. “Bellatrix!”

But Bellatrix was coming out, surrounded by her team, and empty handed. “This was bait,” she snarled.

Regulus looked back at the pile of bodies: Had all of them volunteered to play bait? Who had Bones contacted between last week and now, to arrange this? “But where’s the trap?” he asked quietly.

There was silence for a moment, and then a shout from Rabastan. “ _Aurors_!”

Ah, Regulus realized a moment too late. _That_ trap. “ _You_ ,” he pointed at Rookwood’s chest—no more names, not now that Aurors were here, “take your team and the hostages. We’ll clean up and follow.”

Rookwood was a powerful wizard, but some part of Regulus didn’t want him captured if things went downhill. Maybe this would mean the remaining Death Eaters would be easier to capture? Regulus didn’t know any more if he was thinking like a Death Eater or thinking like a spy.

There was another round of Apparations, and then Rabastan and Rodolphus’s teams broke, and there were Aurors all over.

“Got any more of that-?” Griselda asked, pointing at the scorch mark.

_Protego_.

Regulus eyed the Aurors through his shield. There were still close to thirty Death Eaters, and…nearly the same number of Aurors. But of the remaining Death Eaters—he thought quickly—Yaxley was an Auror and could hold his own, and Regulus and Bella both could. He rather thought most of the rest would need to tag-team them.

“Apparate when you get the chance,” he snapped in the second before anyone could break his shield. “No heroics.”

“ _Avada Kedavra_!” someone in Auror robes roared.

Well they certainly weren’t holding back, Regulus thought sourly. “ _Algos_!”

An Auror went down screaming and Regulus didn’t _think_ any of his had gotten hit, but then he deflected a curse with a Slicing Hex and didn’t have time to think about that.

He didn’t have the control needed for Fiendfyre—but, he realized, hitting an Auror with Impedementia, he didn’t need to.

“ _Ignis exacerbis_!”

Everyone who knew the incantation pulled back—it was why he had said it out loud—and Regulus made no attempt to control the flames. They roared their victory to the skies and spread in all directions, first with wings and then with hands that reached and grabbed for anyone foolish enough to get close.

Regulus took the moment to look around—and thank Merlin, the Death Eaters, forewarned, were using their moment of pause to Apparate away.

Just as the first Auror had the presence of mind to cast something, Regulus did the same.

* * *

He spun back into existence at Blackmere Manor, shaking and exhausted.

Suddenly claustrophobic and nauseous, he tore the mask off his face and was greeted with cheers.

“Well done,” the Dark Lord said, and the only reason Regulus didn’t fall to his knees was he honestly wasn’t sure he could have stood back up again. “You have brought me a matched pair, and I can complete the set.”

For the first time in his life, Regulus was thankful he was too tired to feel any emotional reaction. Forced into a kneel in front of the Dark Lord were Charlus and Dorea Potter, both looking much the worse for wear.

He stared at his cousin and forced himself to breathe. Dorea had a gash across one eyebrow and a rapidly darkening black eye; her hair was in disarray and her formal robes torn and stained.

After a moment, Regulus returned his attention to the Dark Lord. “I am afraid we did not see Callidora or Augusta Longbottom,” he said blandly. “Or any of the younger generation.”

The Dark Lord looked _gleeful—_ a rare expression from him, and worrying. “That does not matter. I have what I wanted.” He let one hand rest on Charlus’s shoulder. “And more than, you seem to have brought nearly all of the House of Longbottom. Very good, Regulus. How many bodies do you think it will take Augusta to decide she would rather have her husband than a squalling infant? Or Callidora, you must know her better. I offer her her husband and son, and will even leave her grandson alone. All she needs to do is stop defending a nuisance.”

Regulus did know Callidora well enough to know what kind of language she would have for that suggestion. He bit his lip on the comment, though, and said instead, “Who will take the message?”

“Bellatrix,” the Dark Lord said, lips twisted. “Bellatrix, take a message to the Minister, he’ll want to hear it I’m sure.” He paused for laughter from those less exhausted than Regulus. “We don’t have any spare bodies, I’m afraid, so for proof you will have to send him to look at Longbottom Manor. I understand it’s visible now.”

“On fire, my lord,” Yaxley said.

The Dark Lord…smiled at that, but it looked unnatural and fake on his face. “ _Very_ well done, Regulus. Yes, Bellatrix, tell the Minister to look at the Longbottom Manor. Tell him _that_ is my power, and I want the Longbottom and Potter children. I understand the need for negotiations: They have until November first.”

Regulus wondered if either of them had considered that Bellatrix was very much a wanted fugitive; as much as he seemed to be in favour now, however, he wasn’t remotely going to correct the Dark Lord on anything, not right now.

“Take the Lestranges,” the Dark Lord said lazily. “Try not to kill anyone while you’re there.”

Bellatrix crooked her finger at her husband and brother-in-law, and Disapparated. They followed immediately, and then there was a silence.

Regulus had to look at the Dark Lord, or at other Death Eaters, or at the sky. He couldn’t look in front of him, where four people had just been told their lives would be traded for their infant grandsons and great-grandson.

“Regulus, you are dismissed.” The Dark Lord met his eyes.

Regulus’s skin crawled and his mind was full of images of Bones. Of course the Dark Lord wanted him to report to her; no doubt he wanted to know what the Aurors thought of his forces. “Thank you, my lord.”

He didn’t—couldn’t—stay long enough to hear what would happen to their prisoners. He just backed away, out of the Dark Lord’s line of sight, and Disapparated.

* * *

Kreacher found him in the entryway before Walburga did, thank God, and moved him to his bedroom, where he slept until early afternoon.

When he woke up, he got himself into the shower and nearly passed out. Muttering about energy drain and emotional magic, he shouted for Kreacher and eventually ate his first meal since the previous morning sitting on the bathroom rug, naked.

This upset Kreacher, of course, so Regulus sent him to get a copy of _The Daily Prophet_ , which he had a subscription to but didn’t normally read.

_MIDNIGHT MURDERS: DEATH EATER ATTACKS HIT PROMINENT FAMILIES_

_4 Dead, 13 Missing._

_Bellatrix Lestrange, Rodolphus Lestrange, and Rabastan Lestrange were arrested this morning in conjunction with a pair of attacks last night that devastated the Longbottom and Potter families._

Regulus put the paper back down and stared at the bathroom ceiling.

Four dead. He didn’t want to know who.

And more to come, if four young parents didn’t make a decision before the Dark Lord got bored.

After eating enough to make Kreacher happy, Regulus found a set of clean dress robes and went to Floo to Hereford Manor.


	17. The Prophecy (4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: TRIGGER WARNINGS AT END OF NOTE. PLEASE BE AWARE OF THEM.
> 
> Life update, grad school is busy. Thanks to fun things like ‘dissertation’, I’m hoping to get ch18 up in February or early March, but after that there may be a long break until August (when the dissertation is due and I am no longer suffering). Or there may not be! It’ll really depend on how much time things take.
> 
> Thank you so much to noaacat for edits, sabreprincess for historical help and moral support, and charamei for sitting next to me while I repeatedly said “what the fuck was supposed to come next”. And to all of you, for sticking around. It’s been a year! What a year. It’s been about 18 months for Regulus, for those interested, and I think he’s had the worse time of it, really.
> 
> TWs: Explicit, on screen physical abuse of an adult child, torture, and mind-rape. Disassociation and general reality disconnect. Suicidal ideation and attempted suicide. Happyfuntimes.

 

He stumbled through the Floo to Hereford Manor, feeling rotted inside and only really sure of the need to do _something_ to put right the events of the night before. Maybe name names. If he could get them arrested, Yaxley and Griselda and the rest, if he could just make sure they would never be able to do that again--

One of Bones’s house elves met him at the grate. "You will waits here."

Regulus waited. He didn’t have the energy to do anything else.

After a moment the house elf came back. “Mistress says you will go to her office.”

He breathed deeply, and took the familiar hallways to Bones’s office.

He hadn’t been able to look at himself in the mirror, but Bones’s expression provided a pretty good guess: Deep, dark bags under her eyes, new wrinkles on her forehead, and something despairing and broken in her expression.

“Sit down, please.”

He sat. He wanted her to be angry, to yell and scream like his mother, to throw things and curse him. Regulus didn’t know what to do with calm quiet, and that horrible darkness behind her eyes.

Bones didn’t sit, but didn’t pace either. She just stood beside her desk, and looked at him. “I want to hear about last night in your own words.”

Regulus opened his mouth and words fell out. The summons. The orders from the Dark Lord. The list of Death Eaters assigned to him—

"He didn't give me a choice—there were too many skilled, I couldn't—"

“Recriminations later,” Bones said coolly. “Start with the facts.”

He continued. His first orders. Dividing his party into groups. The arrival in York. The search.

Here, Bones interrupted. “Did any of them make side-visits while searching?”

Regulus blinked, and thought about this. “I don’t think so, no. The time for er—”

“Personal errands,” Bones said, very dry.

He shrugged. “It’s discouraged when on missions. Raids. I don’t think they would’ve.”

She nodded and started to write notes on a scrap of parchment on her desk. “Continue.”

He did. Then there was the battle, which he reduced to stark sentences, and then the identification of prisoners, rendered even more starkly. He managed to summarize the battle against the Aurors in a sentence, and then wrap up with his return to the Dark Lord.

When he finished, Bones stood in silence for a moment. “I suppose you’ve avoided the news since.”

Regulus rubbed the back of his neck. “I read the headline of the _Prophet_ this morning. Was there more?”

“Not that we’ve had printed, no.” She appeared to be weighing several unlikeable options. “Regulus,” she said quietly. “Did you know that the fire killed an Auror last night?”

He bodily flinched, throwing himself back in his seat. “I _tried_ —”

She sat behind her desk, flicking the edge of the parchment restlessly. “I know. I _know_ , Black, you’ve told me what you’re being trained to do, and the only spell of that lot you used was Fiendfyre which, frankly, was about as much as we deserved.”

He stared at her, flummoxed. She was almost _complimenting_ him, as if she had expected much worse, or—and he didn’t quite know what to think—as if she was proud of him.

“The _Prophet_ reported four deaths. All were Aurors and all knew what they were getting into. Three were at Longbottom Manor and one at Godric’s Hollow.”

Regulus felt the blood drain from his face. One from the fire—from _him_ —and one from Lorette’s curse, he would bet, and the third to whoever had sent up the Dark Mark. “I—”

Bones continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “Four more died at St. Mungo’s today. There are two remaining that the Healers cannot stabilize. They’re doing their best, but they’re running out of ideas. All six of those were at Godric’s Hollow. Look at me, Regulus.”

He looked up from his knees. She had a stern, calm, resolved look on her face that reminded him of the Headmaster.

“Your team killed less than half as many as You-Know-Who's. You captured more but, _but_  they are still alive, and you kept your forces from taking advantage. Don't blame yourself for doing what you had to."

"I didn't _have_  to," he muttered.

Bones looked unimpressed. "You want to You-Know-Who that you aren't interested in leading? What do you think will happen after that?"

He could only imagine. Still, it didn't justify--it couldn't. He had signed up for this in full knowledge, just because he was regretting it now didn't change that. But at any rate, there was a difference between cursing, _killing_ Aurors and...innocents. "Did they know? The defenders. That we were coming.”

“They did,” Bones said calmly. “They were all volunteers. Every one of them knew they were likely to face He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and what the price would be for that.”

Death and pain, invariably. Regulus shuddered. Only the best duelists could hope to stand up to the Dark Lord for more than a single exchange, and even the best duelists didn't have a chance at actually killing him. Which took his thoughts, despite his wishes, back to his mother and the horcrux, and how she was becoming more and more lucid--and less and less Walburga--with every passing day. Something would have to happen, although he shied away from naming _what_ , because what were his options? Destroy the locket and hope Walburga forgot about it? If he even could destroy the locket--he hadn't hidden it away for no reason, after all; horcruxes were resistant to most forms of damage.

Of course, once the horcrux was destroyed there would still be the matter of the Dark Lord--who was increasingly pushing to confront the prophecy. This reminded him of the other issue, the Death Eaters, and he wanted to curse himself for forgetting for so long. "I’m ready to give names.”

Bones gave him a surprised look before grabbing a clean piece of parchment and raising her quill. "Thank you."

“I appointed four leaders. Three were arrested this morning: Bellatrix, Rodolphus, and Rabastan. The fourth is Sir Augustus Rookwood. An Unspeakable.” It felt so good to finally get the words out that he almost missed the flash of horror on Bones’s face. “You didn’t know?”

“No,” Bones said, writing hastily. “I’ve been trusting the Unspeakables. They’re…”

Regulus sighed, wishing there was something _pleasant_  he could do for once. "Corban Yaxley."

Bones recoiled so sharply she scattered ink all over her robes. " _What_?"

“Corban Yaxley,” Regulus said flatly. “Two years older than me. The same age as Frank and Alice Longbottom. And in the Aurors with them too.”

Bones had gone very, very pale. “Are you sure of this?”

He nodded. “He was there last night. He was the one who took down the wards around Longbottom Manor."

“Ah.” Bones wrote down the name. “Is he Marked?”

“Yes.” He thought about this. “You should probably be inspecting new recruits’ arms before admitting them.”

Bones shook her head. “I had actually thought of that. But while I can come up with excuses for them to pull their sleeves up, it’s much harder to manifest an excuse to cast a glamor-dispelling charm.”

He shrugged. “Flick some Thieves’ Downfall on them when they come in the door in the morning.”

“Expensive,” Bones said, “and very illegal unless the location is goblin territory, and that’s a diplomatic catastrophe I have no wish to be involved in. But I can have Yaxley investigated, and Rookwood." She made another note. "Who else?"

Regulus listed name after name, starting with those who had gone on the raid and moving to anyone else he could think of. The only other to get a significant reaction was Decimus Selwyn—no doubt because he was a Healer at St Mungo’s. By the time he had finished, he had to have given Bones more than fifty names, of which close to fifteen were Marked and therefore easy to identify.

When he finished, he hesitated. “There are mutterings about Lucius Malfoy. On both sides.”

Bones sighed and set the quill down. “I can’t arrest him until he does something, Black. Your word is valuable—and I trust you on it, but we must follow the law, and in the eyes of the law, I can’t examine his arm until he is associated with a crime.”

He shook his head; he hadn’t been thinking along those lines anyway. “Some of the Death Eaters—Griselda Macnair, at the least—think that Malfoy is turning. He hasn’t said anything to me, but we also…don’t get along. And if he isn’t turning, he may be…turn-able.”

Bones was silent for a long moment. “He is very clever,” she said eventually. “I would want extensive assurances that he isn’t a plant.”

“I’m not…” Regulus ran hands through his hair, a gesture that had driven his mother to distraction every time he had used it. “Christ, I don’t want to recruit him. I don’t trust Malfoy and he’s my _cousin_. No. What I’m saying is that _if_ Malfoy is interested, it would be easy to set him up to take the fall for any leaks coming out of the Death Eaters.”

Bones stared at him and then snorted. “I had forgotten how ruthless Blacks are.” She made a quick note. "I need to get some sleep, I caught about three hours last night. Right now: We’re going to be a long time responding to the attack and to these names. Go home and make sure your covers are secure, and square yourself with what happened. It’s going to have to happen again.”

That sounded like a dismissal, but he ignored it. He had killed last night and this wasn’t—couldn’t—be enough to make up for it. “I want to do something. To help.”

“You _are_ helping,” Bones said so quickly he almost regretted asking.

But there was something vibrating under his skin and driving him forward. He knew that he would have to kill in order to keep his cover. That didn’t mean that had to be _all_ he did. “You have a plant in the Dark Lord’s Inner Circle. Use me. Let me break prisoners free or hit a Death Eater with friendly fire, but I—” The words wouldn’t come out. He wanted someone to pay for the atrocities that had happened the night before, and if it couldn’t be himself, then let it be someone else responsible.

She gave him another of those long, thoughtful stares. “Brush up on your sneaking,” she said eventually. “And start brewing Polyjuice. I’ll let you know when and where.”

* * *

Regulus's fervent wish to be of use to the opposition went nowhere in September. Bones only wanted to hear about who came to which meetings and other tidbits of Death Eater politics; the Dark Lord didn't want to hear anything and only met with Regulus once. About the only thing of interest happened in the last weekend, when he dropped by Malfoy Manor to see what Draco was up to.

Not very much, he soon discovered: At three months, Draco was still frighteningly tiny and Narcissa never put him down. He greeted both of them politely, and asked after Lucius.

"He's busy this week, I'm afraid," Narcissa said, sitting carefully in a chair. "The Minister asked for advice on the sudden increase in violent attacks on Muggleborns." She looked up at him, very, very innocent. "Of course, she doesn't expect him to know who's behind such a horrible thing, but he does so love to help when he can, and he knows absolutely _everyone_."

They shared looks of mutual understanding.

"But I did have something to tell you," she continued in her normal talking-to-Blacks tone, which was a sharp contrast to the sweet and airy tone she used with anyone else. Regulus frowned, wondering if this was something so trivial it didn't merit an owl, or if there was some other reason she had waited for him to drop in, unsuspected and unannounced. "Your mother came to visit last week."

His stomach sank. That would be why no owl then--it was common knowledge among the Blacks that Walburga read every letter to come into Grimmauld Place, and Narcissa didn't know that Regulus had an owl his mother didn't know about. "Oh."

"Precisely." Narcissa looked at him worriedly. "Reg, something is very wrong with her. She's going to get herself killed, if she goes on like that--or you."

He could only imagine. What had Walburga said? Almost certainly nothing about the Horcrux, he thought it too prone to self-preservation for that, but there were so many agonizing options. "I have had that thought," he said carefully, "and yet, what could I do?"

Narcissa thought for a moment, cradling Draco closer. "She _was_  raving about blood supremacy. Given the political climate, you may have luck setting her up to get arrested."

Regulus wasn't sure if this was a more appealing or terrifying thought. "What, just wave her about under an Auror's nose and hope it bites?"

"Don't be crude, darling, Aurors don't bite," Narcissa said in her prissiest tone. Her worried expression returned. "But something like that, and soon. It's not just the Ministry you need to worry about--she was speaking against the Dark Lord."

So that had been it. Regulus swallowed heavily. "Don't be silly, Cissy, Mother would never--" He shut up at her glare.

It was astonishing how terrifying a woman holding an infant could be, even when sitting down. Maybe _especially_  when sitting down. "Walburga would, absolutely, say anything she liked, even if it was incredibly dangerous and likely to get her killed. The problem is that she shares these opinions with family, and _you know who_  my sister will share them with."

He wanted to hex her for the pun but Narcissa was faster and meaner. Besides, she was right. "Perhaps I will see if I can take her out in company, then."

* * *

Only, for the next two weeks, he couldn't find the opportunity. Walburga was never in when he had an excuse for her to go out with him, and when she was in, it was late in the evening or early in the morning when Regulus couldn't come up with a reason to go on a spontaneous mother-son outing.

The thought of what, exactly, Walburga was up to during all the times she wasn't at home kept Regulus up late at night, laying in bed and worrying, or writing abortive letters to Bones confessing everything that he promptly burned and threw in the bin.

He went to another Death Eater meeting where no one mentioned his mother at all and he had no private conversations with the Dark Lord, and wrote a Walburga-free letter to Bones on it, but otherwise the first half of October was quiet, tense, and left Regulus waiting for the inevitable.

* * *

Despite this, on October the fifteenth, he woke like normal and went to train with Severus.

He came back well after noon, sweaty and rolling his right shoulder where he'd pulled something in their practice duel. Usually he went straight to the shower and dealt with his mother afterward, letting her scream about whatever infuriating thing had been published in the paper that morning. If she had a regular opportunity to yell, she didn't curse him quite so often--even now, now that she wasn't the sole occupant of her body.

Only this time, this day, Walburga was sitting at his desk, flicking through pages of notes and sporadically siphoning off the ink from them back into the inkwell with short waves of her wand. It was a trick the Dark Lord used when he wanted to show off: A precise, wordless charm that required focus and skill to not backfire horribly. More terrifying was that Regulus couldn't remember what the notes were--were they meant for Bones? from school? How much danger was he in now?

She looked up at him, and he _knew_ why she was using that charm; he knew it wasn't Walburga at all, not even in one of her nasty moods. It was the Dark Lord, staring red-eyed and growling through Walburga's eyes.

He froze, torn. The Horcrux had to know that he was a Death Eater--how much independence did it have from the Dark Lord? How much else did it know, what could it do, what could it say to him, how badly could it hurt him? The notes, were they the ones he'd meant to destroy after owling Bones? Only he had destroyed them, he thought he had at least, he'd never slipped up so badly before.

"I cannot believe myself," Walburga's voice said in a jarring, too-broad accent, something careless and unmistakably lower class. The Dark Lord--the Horcrux-- _he_  was pitching it down, trying to sound masculine, but not far enough, and Regulus wanted, as badly as he had ever wanted anything in his life, to leave the room and go hide somewhere. "Why did I pick _you_ for my knights?"

If he answered, it would turn out to be a rhetorical question, so he stood in the doorway to his bedroom and tried not to shake.

"And _why_ ," the Horcrux continued, spitting the words out the same way Walburga always did, "did I choose that _mix_? Why did I Mark him and why are you _working_ with him, like he's worth something? _Answer me!_ "

His tongue felt swollen and thick in his mouth, like someone had replaced it with mothballs--it had the same nauseating taste to it, too. "I don't know--my--my lord." Should he bow? Kneel? Avert his eyes? Christ, no one ever said what to do when your mother was possessed by some fragment of _the Dark Lord._

The Horcrux wasn't listening anyway. "I need to speak with myself. Sort this out. What am I doing? Why could I possibly want those filthy excuses for wizards in my company? And you," the Horcrux waved at Regulus with Walburga's wand, "you're nearly as bad. You think you're so clever, don't you, coming up with spying?" Walburga sneered. "It lets you associate with all those Mudbloods and traitors and pretend you're still serving the cause, but you're not. You're not! And you know it, don't you? You wanted this, wanted to be around them, because deep down you're a filthy little blood traitor too."

His stomach flipped over. It must be a page of notes for Bones that he'd forgotten to destroy, somehow--he was usually very good at this, but mistakes happened--and then...The Dark Lord was not stupid and neither, unfortunately, was his mother. They would put the worst possible spin on it; he might be able to convince the real Dark Lord, but this one? This one with his mother's face and voice, living in his house, able to work around the wards because--because he must have done something wrong, or maybe because she was housing something runes had never been designed for, God only knew-- _This_  abomination?

And, and there was after this moment to think of, there was later, because later what would Walburga say to her friends? How much longer could the Horcrux keep its possession hidden? Would it even want to? What _had_  it been doing for the last two weeks?

Of course, the fledgling Dark Lord could always resolve all of Regulus's dilemmas by killing him.

"What do you have to say, blood traitor?" The Horcrux stood, absurdly seeming to try to loom over him, even though Walburga was two inches shorter and considerably heavier than Regulus. He stepped back anyway. "What _can_ you say to excuse this _betrayal_?"

Absolutely nothing. His mind raced. He could run--only would she tell someone? Jesus and Merlin, what if she went to the Dark Lord? There was no explanation Regulus could give for having a Horcrux, a Horcrux thatthey should be in a cave on the North Sea, in his house. He would be dead then so no, things couldn't be allowed to go on. But how to stop it? She was out of control, he knew that now, the Horcrux was, it really _was_  the Dark Lord, all of that unhinged ambition wedded to his mother's arrogance and rashness. Obliviate?

" _Legilimens_."

He made an awful noise and threw himself to the side, banging his elbow hard on the door frame. " _Mother_!"

He would have to do _something--_ the one thing Walburga had never done was use Legilimency on him, whatever other tortures she'd devised, but what, could he even Obliviate his mother to such an extent? Would it work on the Horcrux? And Christ, what a jarring reminder that this wasn't Walburga, that this was something wearing her body, using her to hurt him--but what could he do, when her face was still the one screaming abuse at him, when her voice rang in his ears?

"Too bad you won't hold still," the Dark Lord said through Walburga's mouth, and Regulus scrabbled for the door handle, he would figure out what came next after that-- " _Imperio_."

He couldn't--or didn't--dodge. It felt like he was falling, but wrapped in blankets, warm and cushioned and nothing mattered except the voice, speaking gently to him.

_Tell me what you know of Horcruxes._

His mouth opened and he spoke, and he did so without volition, and somewhere else Regulus was howling in fear and frustration.

_Tell me what you know of Dumbledore's gang._

His mouth opened and he spoke, and words dropped from his tongue, and Regulus was clawing his way back into existence because no he couldn't know about them--

_Tell me what you know of the Aurors._

His mouth opened and he--he--he--

Regulus screamed and yanked his wand out. " _Protego_!"

He was falling but the comfort was gone, he thought that at any minute he would hit the ground and wake up, this was a nightmare and nothing more. He couldn't think straight and his vision was wrong, like he was looking through a pane of old glass, and all the sounds came through distorted and warped.

"You little _worm_."

He scrabbled for coherency and found panic. His breath came too fast and too shallow and if the Dark Lord-his mother-the Horcrux didn't kill him soon, he might do the same from sheer terror. "St-stay back," he said, and couldn't figure out why, because it wasn't like she listened when she was punishing them. But Sirius always protested, so Regulus did the same, piping up in soprano echo behind his brother, and then Sirius took the punishment twice for tempting his little brother and Regulus could never figure out _why_ \--

" _Crucio_!"

He shrieked, pain tearing through him and out his throat as noise, not even trying to hold it in because it only made it worse, had to show his mother that he was properly apologetic. His wand was in his hand, why was his wand in his hand, that never helped, maybe that was why it hurt so bad--

He almost dropped it, but it hurt _so much_ and he tried to claw at himself, and the wand sent burning sparks across his arm and yes, he deserved that too if only he could remember what he did.

For a second, for a heartbeat, his eyes focused on the locket, and through the pain, through the agony that rattled his spine and burned out his stomach, he knew the locket for wrong, and not his mother's jewelry, for didn't he have to polish it ten times over? It wasn't right, it shouldn't be there, this wasn't a normal punishment, he couldn't remember what he'd done wrong because _he_ _hadn't done anything wrong._

The spell let up for a moment. "Want to beg, blood traitor? Beg for me to stop," said his mother, said someone wearing his mother's body because it wasn't his mother, because he knew it wasn't her, knew it even when he thought he might die from pain, knew the locket didn't belong, couldn't remember why, barely remembered his name--" _Beg for me_."

He was on the floor, curled up, panting, trying to remember what the locket was, why was it so important, who was this in his mother's form--

" _Crucio_!"

It was worse, it was worse, he couldn't say why but it was worse, he screamed without thought, he tried again to scratch and failed, hand clenched around the wand. It went on, and on, until his mind shook and his fear paled in comparison to the pain, the overriding _pain_ that controlled him.

"Now _beg_!"

The pain ended.

He looked up from the floor and got his wand pointed the right way. The wand reminded him of a spell, and he didn't know why, but, full of fear and pain and anger at this person who looked like his mother but _wasn't_ \--

Said the words.

" _Ignis exacerbis_."

Fire bloomed from his wand, white hot and flickering over his hands. The monster-in-his-mother's-form snarled something that he couldn't hear, and leaped at him.

He got one hand up in time to grab a wrist, and then flailed, kicked out, got it--her--him? in the stomach. The monster recoiled, dropped the wand. The fire howled in glee and he--they both screamed in pain, but this pain didn't compare to the previous, and something was off, there was something he needed to do--

Not die.

Because there was something he knew that no one else did, he was sure he would remember it later, and he couldn't die yet.

The fire spread up the walls, laughing, and reached for the monster. Reached for him too.

He got his feet under him and stood on shaking legs. It was hot, so hot, and the air peeled his skin. The monster bent, reached for the dropped wand--

He couldn't let the monster get it, something awful would happen, so he threw himself at the wand and got it just in time, came up rolling--why did this remind him of broomsticks and a gold ball--clutched the wands in one hand and dove for the window.

It burst in glass and flame, and he fell--

Fell--

The monster tried to follow but the flames grew and it screamed in unison with him as he hit the ground, something in his body cracking and the thing above howling, burning, shrieking with two voices.

Until it didn't.

Until all he could hear was flames crackling, eating, destroying.

He lay there in pain and in confusion until his world went black.

* * *

He woke not long later, to judge by the flames still crackling on the edge of his vision.

There was an Auror in red robes crouched beside him, wand pointing at his face. "What's your name?"

He had to think about this. "Regulus," he said, and then paused for a while, mind screaming _Sirius,_ it was always Regulus and Sirius Black, it was, it was--"Arcturus Black."

"Are you responsible for the fire?"

Regulus's memory was coming back in horrible fits and starts, and he was pretty sure he didn't want to answer that question without a lawyer.

"Don't answer that," Bones said, waving the Auror away. "Let me handle him, Dawlish, you go work on the fire."

Dawlish scowled but walked away.

Bones knelt down. "Lord Black. What happened here?"

He took a moment to put the words in order. "My mother attacked me. I...lost control."

She nodded. "May I see the wands?"

He appreciated her not simply forcing them from his hand. Sitting up, he paused a moment in wonder that he didn't seem to have any burns. He had definitely broken a rib or two from the stabbing pain in his chest, but those would set. Regulus handed the wands over. "The hawthorn is mine."

Bones nodded, and raised Walburga's first. " _Priori incantatem_." The wand disgorged four runes in quick succession, the first and fourth different and the middle two the same. She shook her head. "Well, if she had survived the fire, she would have been bound for Azkaban regardless. I think we can rule this as self-defence."

He didn't dare to hope to get away with casting Fiendfyre, though, especially not on his mother--wait, if she had _survived_?

" _Priori incantatem_ ," Bones said again, raising Regulus's wand. This one let loose a spurt of ghostly fire in the shape of a dragon, and then nothing. "Well."

Dawlish was back. "Ma'am, it's Fiendfyre."

"Yes, thank you, Dawlish," Bones said, not even looking at him. "Lord Black, I am afraid I will have to write you up for choosing that specific spell. Walburga Black's death, however, is an open-and-shut case of self-defence and will not be prosecuted."

Her _death_? Blood drained from his face, leaving him cold. "She's--she's dead?"

" _Ma'am_ ," Dawlish said insistently. "It's spreading!"

Bones looked up sharply. "Don't leave," she told Regulus, who had no intention of doing any such thing. Dropping the wands next to him, Bones turned and started barking orders to the Aurors. "Transfigure sand! Who's got the body? Preston, start rounding up the Muggles--and send for an Obliviate squad."

Body? Regulus picked up the wands, put his own back down again, and held Walburga's carefully. Her body, no doubt. His chest felt empty, like somewhere in the fight he had burnt out his heart along with his mother's. Maybe it was Polyjuice, he thought briefly, but no. No, this was too consistent with her behavior over the past few months, a too predictable escalation of her actions since she found the Horcrux. So he had destroyed the Horcrux finally--and in the process, killed his mother.

He pulled his legs in tight to his chest, ignoring the pain coming from his ribs, and waited for the Aurors to finish. Regulus stared at the cobblestone street. His mother was dead. He had killed her. The Horcrux was dead too, which was great, but he had _murdered_  his mother and he didn't deserve to get off easy because Bones thought it was self-defence. At least it sounded like they'd be after him for the Fiendfyre, which was good. That was good. He'd gone for the wrong spell and _someone_ ought to punish him for it because--

He breathed in shakily. His eyes stung. She was a horrible woman even before the Horcrux and he'd feared her as much as he'd feared anyone, but she was his _mother_ and he'd _killed_ her.

Arms wrapped around his legs, he looked at nothing and tried not to think. If he didn't think, it wasn't real, and he wouldn't end up crying here in front of a dozen Aurors.

Bones knelt beside him again. "Lord Black. Are you injured?"

He shrugged, and immediately had to hide his wince as the motion pulled at his ribs. "Shouldn't--the Muggles?" Yes, that made sense, he was a criminal and they were innocent, even if lesser, _they_ had done no wrong and shouldn't be hurt, only he should be--

"The situation is under control. Are you injured?" Bones said calmly.

After a minute, he pulled his hands away from his knees. "Just my rib. The, the fire didn't..." He didn't quite know what to say.

Gently, Bones touched her wand to his chest. "Those are some solid wards you have up, Lord Black. Your _thurisaz_ was a little irregular and Ainsley thinks that's why Walburga was able to curse you at all, but everything else held. You have fire damage in the upstairs bedroom. Otherwise, everything else looks normal."

That--that wasn't right, that wasn't _fair_ , he _deserved_ to have his house burnt down, _he had killed his mother_. "Her--the body?"

"Ashes, I'm afraid. The wards didn't do anything for her. I have Aurors collecting them now for burial." She put her wand away, although Regulus didn't feel any different. His ribs still hurt, and everything else was still empty. "I'm writing you a summons to the Committee on Petty Offenses. Fiendfyre is a banned spell and they'll rap your knuckles, but under the circumstances I think that's plenty. And until they find the time to see you, I'm sending you to St Mungo's. Those ribs are beyond my skill, and you look concussed."

He didn't want to go to St Mungo's, but he couldn't really go home either--home to where he'd killed his mother, home to the burn marks and the screaming and the silence and the emptiness--so he let Bones take him by the arm and Side-Along him to the reception area. She checked him into a short term ward on the ground floor and made sure the Healer took both wands from him before Apparating away again.

He wished she wasn't so caring. It had to be bad for her, caring for him.

The Healer directed him to a bed and handed him several potions, which he drank without questioning.

For the second time that night, he passed out.

* * *

He awoke to sunlight, to noise, and to the distinctive feel of a wand in his ribs.

Memory came back slowly. He was in St Mungo's with broken ribs and a concussion. He had just murdered his mother and made a good attempt at burning down the family house. He was being summoned to court to account for the latter.

He opened his eyes slowly.

A Healer sat beside him, chanting quietly.

Well, that explained the wand at least. Regulus kept his mouth shut and waited. The Healer couldn’t do anything about his guilt over previous actions, but it’d be nice if his chest didn’t hurt every time he breathed.

“Oh good,” the Healer said, moving towards his face. “Glad to see you’re awake. What’s the last thing you remember?”

_Murdering my mother_. “Madam Bones brought me here after I was involved in an...altercation.” 

“Very good. Physically, you’re Healed. We got Skelegrow in you for those ribs, and a mix of other potions for the curses and the concussion. But I’d like you to stay here for today, just under observation. Concussion and spell damage don’t make good partners.”

The Healer sounded like a Muggleborn, Regulus thought snidely, but he was willing to extend a smidgen of trust on the assumption that Bones would not have left him in incompetent hands.

That she probably should have was a different problem entirely.

With that in mind--with his shame, his guilt, his horror in mind--Regulus put on the shy smile that had always worked wonders with Hogwarts staff. “Might I go home, if I promise to remain there quietly? I know the wards held, but I want to see--I want to see what’s left. What was damaged. Please. It’s my home.”

The Healer blinked slowly. “Well...the Floo is the best, if you’re determined. I can’t keep you here, but I do advise against it.”

He nodded, silent, and let the Healer move on. When he was safely alone--in a private room, wonder of wonders--he slipped out of bed and pulled robes on. They were his from the night before, plain black, but someone had repaired them and cleaned them up. On the bedside table were his personal effects: two wands, the summons to court, a handkerchief that had incongrously survived intact, and a collection of spare change. He collected all of it and stepped out of the room to the common Floo at the end of the hallway.

“Grimmauld Place.” It was a miracle he did not stutter. Stepping into the fire, he was struck by an intense, unfathomable wish that it was real, that it would burn him, that he would die like wizards of old, that it would kill him and he wouldn’t have to deal with this anymore, with this surviving and with this death.

But he stepped out the other side, and was greeted ecstatically by the house elves.

Kreacher burst into tears and Dobby grabbed at him frantically, and it took Regulus a while to convince them to leave him be. He wouldn't go upstairs, though, and for the longest time he stood arguing with his house elves in the entryway, because if he went upstairs--if he saw--well. Eventually he set Kreacher to cooking lunch and Dobby to replacing the wallpaper in the burnt rooms, which kept them away long enough.

He went down to the cellar, to the potions laboratory, where he took a vial of poison from the shelf.

At that point his courage failed him, and he sat on the floor with it.

He had brewed it, months ago, on command from the Dark Lord, but had never received orders to use it on anyone. It was painless and fast, which was probably more than he deserved, but he was scared he’d otherwise bail at the last moment.

The thing was, he had killed before. But it had been on orders, and in the service of something, even if he wasn’t sure of the righteousness. And never, never had it been a relative. Never had he killed anyone who had rocked him to sleep, who had stroked his hair out of his face and kissed him in love, who had held his hand when he was too little to walk on his own.

It wasn’t worth living after that.

Before he could regret or think it through, he unstoppered the vial.

The Horcrux was dead. His mission was complete. Whichever infant turned out to be the subject of prophecy, the Dark Lord could now die.

And so could he.

He drank the poison without flinching.

It didn’t burn--it didn’t feel much of anything. At least he had been right about it being painless.

But before it could really take effect, even as his vision began to swim, Dobby burst into the room--perhaps to ask something, perhaps to update him on the status of the cleaning--and saw the vial drop from his hands and shatter on the floor.

“Master Regulus! Master Regulus must not! Master Regulus must not die, he must not!” Dobby grabbed for his hand.

Snatching it away, Regulus recoiled, panting. “No, no, I--"

Before he could get out an order, Dobby succeeded in touching him and in a blink, they were gone.


End file.
